tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89501270277405579422018-02-14T15:02:22.641-08:00This is Why You're SingleAssbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.comBlogger128125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-2398186478939217432018-01-17T04:27:00.001-08:002018-01-17T04:27:09.868-08:00CRUNCHY COOKIES ARE GODDAMNED ABOMINATIONSI'm not one to bury the lead here, people. Crunchy cookies should not be a thing.<br /><br />In the four months that I've lived in Korea, I've found it to be a dessert-loving society and ice cream and cakes are readily available. As are donuts, chocolate croissants, shaved ice, and various types of Korean traditional desserts. A couple of weeks ago, some friends of mine and I actually went from Baskin Robbins straight across the street to a Krispy Kreme because we have no willpower (and needed breakfast for the next day). Whoever looks at my credit card statement would just be like WHOA FATTY FAT FAT, CALM DOWN.<br /><br />However, in all the places I've had dessert items, one thing has been missing: delicious chocolate chip cookies. As much as I love ice cream, brownies and donuts, nothing makes me happier than a fresh, soft, chewy chocolate chip cookie, or, if I'm SUPER lucky, a DOUBLE chocolate chip cookie. Nothing is closer to my heart than a traditional cookie (and let's be real here, my heart is equal parts chocolate, cheese, and curry).<br /><br />Sometime during my first month here, I noticed that in the myriad bakeries dotting the Korean landscape, there was not a single cookie. But...WHY? Maybe I don't want to indulge in a rich slice of cake for a snack, maybe I just want a little cookie to cure the craving. But none, nowhere. I occasionally found packaged cookies but didn't buy them.<br /><br />Finally after way too long, I caved and bought a package of 6 cookies. It was a Peppridge Farm type package, and the picture on it was of a fresh chocolate chip cookie with melty chocolate chips. Mmmm. Soft melty chocolate chips, soft cookie... After lunch that day, I opened the package and to my horror I discovered that the cookies were not only not SOFT, they were ACTIVELY CRUNCHY. Like HARD. The kind where you bite it and crumbs fly everywhere because it crumbles into a billion goddamned pieces since it's such a WEAK excuse for a cookie. Ugh.<br /><br />I know every cookie cannot be soft and gooey and fresh out of the oven, but there's a difference between one that's "not soft" and "actively hard." A cookie should kind of bend when you're trying to take a piece, not crack under pressure. If you drop your cookie on the table, it shouldn't sound like you dropped a wooden coaster. YOU SHOULDN'T BE ABLE TO KNOCK ON A HARD SURFACE WITH A COOKIE. It's just UNREASONABLE.<br /><br />Why would you do that to something so delicious? SERIOUSLY WHY? It has so much potential! Just don't cook it so damn long! Does anyone in their right mind PREFER hard cookies? HAVE KOREANS EVER EATEN A DELICIOUS FRESH BAKED COOKIE? DO THEY KNOW WHAT THEY'RE MISSING?<br /><br />When I was back in the US for my winter break, I went to Starbucks with my mom. Without thinking too much, I got a cookie, as I had many times before. Then I ate it, and was overwhelmed with joy as I enjoyed the glorious soft chewiness that I'd been missing for so long. That is a proper cookie, my friends. Hard cookies are dessert abominations and should be forbidden.Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-8284677315433559792017-11-20T05:26:00.000-08:002017-11-20T05:26:23.207-08:00THE EPIC SAGA OF THE APARTMENT GESTAPO , PART DEUXWelcome back, folks. As anticipated, the saga of the Apartment Gestapo continues to provide entertainment to the masses. If you're just joining us, I live with two humans, and one of them believes we need to clean behind the microwave weekly.<br /><br />On the last episode, I told Apartment Gestapo that doing a weekly deep clean of the entire apartment was unnecessary and unreasonable, considering the fact that one of the rooms is never used, and the other one is fucking immaculately clean all the time. AG responded with a 3-page memo dictating exactly what days we're supposed to clean and pinpointed specific things to "remember" to do. It was maybe the most ridiculous shit I've ever seen.<br /><br />This weekend I was accosted in the kitchen, because I can't have any peace in my own fucking apartment, and told that I was supposed to clean last weekend but I didn't, so I needed to do it this weekend. I took a quick look at the kitchen, ran my hand over the counter, and made a judgment call that cleaning was not required at this time.<br /><br />Below are photographs of the area in question. This is exactly what it looked like when I was told to clean it. The images below might be DISTURBING TO SOME VIEWERS if you have any kind of cleanliness-related OCD.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k5IJHfJePk4/WhLOK0kohFI/AAAAAAAADeI/KZ7dnwUW948ZRNnYdE_nHlgUDTVceYC-ACLcBGAs/s1600/20171120_205747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k5IJHfJePk4/WhLOK0kohFI/AAAAAAAADeI/KZ7dnwUW948ZRNnYdE_nHlgUDTVceYC-ACLcBGAs/s640/20171120_205747.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This is the offending area. As you can see, it's filthy. I can barely stand to look at it. You can zoom in if you DARE.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5_AkIXT8R2o/WhLOK3gwhTI/AAAAAAAADeQ/_q7c0pM6aqs1oVZJiMUrTU5eUXfcJKIaQCLcBGAs/s1600/20171120_205825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5_AkIXT8R2o/WhLOK3gwhTI/AAAAAAAADeQ/_q7c0pM6aqs1oVZJiMUrTU5eUXfcJKIaQCLcBGAs/s640/20171120_205825.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Another view of the room in question. There's a goddamn crumb next to the fridge. I'm a fucking MONSTER to have let this sit there that long!</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iETIWRLjWeQ/WhLOKyG80MI/AAAAAAAADeM/0s0MjVArN64phSll7ZURj7Yy4lj5opspwCLcBGAs/s1600/20171120_205834.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iETIWRLjWeQ/WhLOKyG80MI/AAAAAAAADeM/0s0MjVArN64phSll7ZURj7Yy4lj5opspwCLcBGAs/s640/20171120_205834.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>&nbsp;This is a wide angle view of the kitchen. It looks like a goddamned murder scene. I should be arrested based on this photo alone.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eIwOuqPxi2s/WhLOMx2pY9I/AAAAAAAADeU/FyezTwbqDWQgptDErrrFjQ0MlBAeIW9NACLcBGAs/s1600/20171120_210406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eIwOuqPxi2s/WhLOMx2pY9I/AAAAAAAADeU/FyezTwbqDWQgptDErrrFjQ0MlBAeIW9NACLcBGAs/s640/20171120_210406.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This one is hard to look at. I mean, there are like 3 crumbs. I can't even believe I can show you such horror.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4SaMQHju8bk/WhLON0WaQXI/AAAAAAAADeY/0a4n6x_-WRI4YrG1Py3ooiAFkndgJGj7QCLcBGAs/s1600/20171120_210729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4SaMQHju8bk/WhLON0WaQXI/AAAAAAAADeY/0a4n6x_-WRI4YrG1Py3ooiAFkndgJGj7QCLcBGAs/s640/20171120_210729.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I have directed your attention to part of the crime scene. I am so embarrassed for you to see this, you'll never think of me as hygienic again.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bqpBkU2HN-U/WhLQRCw-6vI/AAAAAAAADew/G9kN7S4FlDogpeHRi9VwzPcv7REfjQCugCLcBGAs/s1600/20171120_210539.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bqpBkU2HN-U/WhLQRCw-6vI/AAAAAAAADew/G9kN7S4FlDogpeHRi9VwzPcv7REfjQCugCLcBGAs/s640/20171120_210539.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I know this is hard to look at, but you must. The arrows indicate two stray pieces of uncooked ramen noodles lying carelessly on the stove. What is NOT SHOWN is the OTHER THING that was left on the stove...</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9KhQeYT2LcM/WhLOODWAaZI/AAAAAAAADeg/DrZgHCEvSD4OXFbEEsIPuCZXrTLNEOS_QCEwYBhgL/s1600/20171120_210829.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9KhQeYT2LcM/WhLOODWAaZI/AAAAAAAADeg/DrZgHCEvSD4OXFbEEsIPuCZXrTLNEOS_QCEwYBhgL/s640/20171120_210829.jpg" width="360" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">THIS PIECE OF FISH. WAS ON. THE STOVE. But who makes fish? Apartment Gestapo! In fact, she made fish LAST NIGHT. So this fish has been there for nearly 24 hours. Likely on purpose to make me clean it up. So there are two ramen crumbs left by Guy Roommate, and then a chunk of day-old fish left by everyone's favorite fascist. So she was upset at how dirty SHE made the stove?</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cZPnJm7VnfA/WhLQQsKs9cI/AAAAAAAADes/8GVm0yJRodcahB3LNlYPsLcGWbn8EhowgCEwYBhgL/s1600/20171120_212504.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cZPnJm7VnfA/WhLQQsKs9cI/AAAAAAAADes/8GVm0yJRodcahB3LNlYPsLcGWbn8EhowgCEwYBhgL/s400/20171120_212504.png" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Here is a series of text messages received yesterday by both myself and Guy Roommate. As you will note, it's a pretty one-sided conversation.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">10:24am: Novel begins.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Items of note: "can WE clean what WE were supposed to clean last week?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"FOR THE SAKE OF INTEGRITY"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"small meeting"</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iA6bl1OAYhw/WhLQQjZ3EjI/AAAAAAAADeo/xXjno-FPpWYECI5RBarqitVcvVeI7U6vACEwYBhgL/s1600/20171120_212637.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iA6bl1OAYhw/WhLQQjZ3EjI/AAAAAAAADeo/xXjno-FPpWYECI5RBarqitVcvVeI7U6vACEwYBhgL/s400/20171120_212637.png" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Items of note: Oooh, directed at me! "don't forget" lolol</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">FYI, there was NO food in the drain. I looked.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"last time...I cleaned alone guys" yes, that's correct, because it didn't need to be cleaned, so the reasonable roommates did not think it necessary to clean things that are clean.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Let's not have a repeat of that" I can't promise that at any given time, even immediately after one of us has undertaken any type of cleaning, that you will be satisfied with the cleanliness because your standards are LIKE A GODDAMNED FANTASY WORLD</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S26AxeNymDM/WhLQR_oBMpI/AAAAAAAADe0/cUSnNBrj7bkXV8qWNucFobygXMb64a2XgCEwYBhgL/s1600/20171120_212801.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S26AxeNymDM/WhLQR_oBMpI/AAAAAAAADe0/cUSnNBrj7bkXV8qWNucFobygXMb64a2XgCEwYBhgL/s400/20171120_212801.png" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Items of note: More use of the word "we" here. Not condescending at all.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"also I didn't clean last weekend!" WE DON'T CARE BECAUSE IT DIDN'T NEED CLEANING.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"next week we are scheduled to clean again" Well, we must do everything by the schedule, mustn't we? It would be completely unreasonable to assess the situation at the time and determine if action was necessary. Or what if I spilled all over the counter on TUESDAY? Should I wait until my cleaning was scheduled?</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QCjF6csCoEw/WhLQSIfIiyI/AAAAAAAADe4/ddtkHdO3OmQLwVdXUo1PZ3FJmR85290gACEwYBhgL/s1600/20171120_212914.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="964" data-original-width="1080" height="285" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QCjF6csCoEw/WhLQSIfIiyI/AAAAAAAADe4/ddtkHdO3OmQLwVdXUo1PZ3FJmR85290gACEwYBhgL/s320/20171120_212914.png" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">8:06pm: Almost 10 hours have passed and she obviously had some sort of breakdown because we didn't immediately drop everything and do exactly what she wanted. I'm proud that she was able to hold it in that long. Baby steps.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"I'VE decided that each person must have their own shelf" LOLOL OKAY MEIN FUHRER</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"The one with the lesser food is mine" You teach English. There are 3 shelves. Incorrect use of both the word "lesser" and lack of superlative form - "The one with the LEAST food is mine."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Guess u can throw it out yourselves"&nbsp; Ohh, full on passive-aggression, nice. And if you would just have resorted to this fucking concept earlier, "guess you can clean up after yourselves," maybe we wouldn't be receiving unsolicited text messages at all hours of the day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Coolio" translation: it is entirely NOT coolio.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Then, as I mentioned earlier today, she decided to tell the landlord/our boss that we weren't cleaning. Because that's what adults do. They go cry to their fucking landlord about how their roommates won't go along with their dictatorship and do something because it's "scheduled" (by her, of course). Landlord/boss has not seen our apartment. She just knows what AG has told her, so she assumes we're living in filth. Good thing I took those photos to show how completely fucking ridiculous she is.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And if you're keeping count, only 5 more days in this prison.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-62168254392222000622017-11-19T07:05:00.000-08:002017-11-19T07:05:25.653-08:00THINGS I NEVER SAID BEFORE MOVING TO KOREA- I'm running out of socks.<br /><br />- I think I'm going to lay down on the floor, it's so warm.<br /><br />- No cabbage on my toast, please.<br /><br />- I haven't seen a single trash can in two hours.<br /><br />- Why am I the only person who needs a napkin in this whole restaurant?<br /><br />- Mmm, this convenience store fried chicken is delicious.<br /><br />- There's mustard on my breakfast sandwich.<br /><br />- Damn, octopus for lunch again.<br /><br />- I just walked through a park at night and no one tried to rob/rape/murder me.<br /><br />- Can I get more of the fried chicken flavored chips please?<br /><br />- This subway smells nice.<br /><br />- This is the toothbrush my bank gave me for opening an account.<br /><br />- I'll pick up some new makeup in the subway station when I get there.<br /><br />- Why is my drink so small?<br /><br />- Hmm, it looks like I'm going to need to use the MEAT SCISSORS on this piece.<br /><br />- Where can I get tea that DOESN'T taste like grain?<br /><br />- Good thing I brought my own toilet paper.<br /><br /><br />Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-69070562376728136182017-11-13T06:42:00.000-08:002017-11-13T06:42:50.625-08:00THINGS TEACHERS THINK (OR AT LEAST THIS TEACHER)I'm sure that there are some other teachers out there that think these things...I hope...<br /><br />1) I have become aware of exactly how beautifully long even 5 minutes can be. Between my first 4 classes, there are no breaks. Not even enough for me to go to the bathroom. Literally no minutes. So when one of the classes is a few minutes late, I enjoy every lingering second of silence and freedom. Every. Single. One.<br /><br />Sometimes I wonder if any of my teachers thought this (answer: most definitely yes) - but those precious few seconds I have to myself between :05 and :10 for the last 3 hours of the day ARE MINE AND MINE ALONE.<br /><br />Don't you DARE come in early. This is my private quiet time where I can be an adult for 5 minutes and have a goddamned Ding Dong because I haven't eaten for hours. If you so much as BREATHE in the direction of the door before that clock hits 10 after, I WILL END YOU.<br /><br />2) Some of my students are very smart. This doesn't necessarily mean they're super great at English, just that they understand what I'm saying and can follow directions. I love these kids. They are glorious and make me happy. There is a small handful of them (maybe 4) who are dense as a goddamned pile of concrete. These kids frustrate me to no end. We will literally do the exact same thing as we did last week, and the week before, and these kids will act like they have no concept of what is happening.<br /><br />Most of the kids are middle ground kids, which is perfectly acceptable. But some of them have the attention span of a goldfish - they can remember how to say "ambulance" (WTF, that word is hard!) but they cannot remember to SHUT THEIR DAMN PIE HOLES WHILE I'M TALKING.<br /><br />Me: Guys, quiet down. Teacher is talking. No talking while teacher is talking.<br />Kids: Ok teacher... *10 seconds pass*<br />*talking resumes*<br />Me: Seriously. If I have to tell you to stop talking again, you won't get a sticker. If you don't get a sticker, then you won't get candy *audible gasp from class* YEAH. So quiet.<br />*10 seconds later, talking resumes*<br />Me: *in my head but it feels like I'm yelling it* SWEET MERCIFUL SHIT, IF YOU DON'T SHUT YOUR MOUTHS WITHIN THE NEXT MILLISECOND, I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL ANYONE YOU'VE EVER LOVED<br /><br />3) The vast majority of the issues come from the kindergarten classes. The older students have their moments, but are generally reasonable and listen to me to a degree I can at least tolerate. The kindergarteners can literally not sit in chairs correctly. They're always turning around, putting their feet on someone else's chair, flailing about like an inflatable tube man at a car dealership. And they TRY. That's the part I can't understand. I see they're genuinely considering listening and obeying me when I tell them to turn around and be quiet. They don't do it to be dicks, they just have some crazy monster inside them that forces them to move AT ALL TIMES.<br /><br />I have experience with this since I was, yes, once a child. We can have my parents fact-check this if you like, but I KNOW I never had a problem understanding IN ANY LANGUAGE when I was supposed to sit down and shut up. If a teacher told me to do something, I did it, immediately. And yes, this was when I was their age. Yes, I remember. I never talked when I wasn't supposed to. I never randomly got up and walked around. I never yelled. I didn't sit like a fucking gymnast twisted into a pretzel. IT IS REALLY NOT HARD TO FUNCTION AS A CHILD, I KNOW BECAUSE I DID IT.<br /><br />I don't remember having some giant internal struggle to keep myself quiet and semi-still during class or other quiet times. I'm pretty sure it didn't need to be explained more than once. When an adult is talking, you are quiet. It's pretty fucking simple, yet it's an insane struggle AT LEAST once or twice a week in each class.<br /><br />4) Sometimes the kids have to do "projects" - quotes are because it's basically drawing or coloring something that we told them to draw or color. There's always one kid who either cannot draw himself out of a paper bag, or one who just doesn't want to do whatever it is we're doing.<br /><br />A week or so ago, the kids were coloring a project. They were supposed to draw animals. Many (most) of the animals look like they were contaminated with radioactive waste and melted into small blobs of animal parts, but there were a couple of kids who just couldn't do anything. One kid had drawn a few orange penguins and came up and told me "teacher finished!" I look at it and am like "Well, whatever. If you think you're done, you're done." As I was holding the entirely orange drawing, I was told that it "wasn't enough" because if their parents saw that, "they'd be very disappointed."<br /><br />Well not in me, I didn't draw it. Get mad at your kid for really liking orange. It's not my fault they're completely untalented at drawing. This isn't a drawing class. I'm sure Sally or Elsa or T-Rex is fantastic at some other subject, so art may not be their thing. But no, I was supposed to stand over the child and force them to draw more things. If you're upset that your kid can't draw, shouldn't you take that up with the kid?? I mean the damn kid can remember "ambulance" and pronounce it correctly, why the living hell do you care about a couple of misshapen orange penguins?<br /><br />5) There's also one kid that's just a straight up sociopath. Like on the pathway to becoming a serial killer. "But how do you know he's a sociopath?" Good question. One I would have asked a mere two months ago. But when you are put face-to-face with a kid that stares into your soul with dead eyes that have no emotion as he does something you explicitly told him not to do, you just know. I'd never met a sociopath before either, but it's one of those "you don't know it till you see it" things. Like he just straight up has no emotions. He doesn't even get mad when I punish him. It's pretty creepy. The whole class I'm just thinking about how I hope to god there are no small animals in his neighborhood.Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-4813627391286531172017-10-29T05:08:00.000-07:002017-10-29T05:08:27.838-07:00WHY I CANNOT LIVE WITH HUMANS, EXHIBIT AWelcome back to my Korean life. As some of you may know, I have to live in a 3 bedroom until the end of November, which of course comes with two other humans occupying the other rooms. I wasn't particularly worried - I mean, it's temporary and I have successfully lived with other humans on occasion in the past 10 years and successfully maintain a friendly relationship (or required family relationship) with the other occupants.&nbsp;<div><br /></div><div>This is the story of a not-so-successful roommate relationship. We'll call it "Cleaninggate."</div><div><br /></div><div>After deciding that 9am on a Saturday was an opportune time to have a roommate meeting because I happened to get up to get some water, girl roommate took it upon herself to WAKE UP guy roommate and tell him that we needed to talk about cleaning. Like straight up just made him get out of bed when he was dead asleep. I felt bad for the poor kid, he was sick like I'd been for weeks, and now he was being dragged out of bed at 9 on a Saturday to be told he's require to clean part of the apartment every week.</div><div><br /></div><div>The gist was that we split the apartment into 3 zones (I say we, but I really mean "she") - the kitchen, the living room (that NO ONE EVER USES), and the HALLWAY by the bathroom I share with guy roommate. She says we need to rotate cleaning every week. I say that every week is unreasonable, but she insists and I just assume if no one touched it she'll be okay with it remaining as clean as it has been.</div><div><br /></div><div>I made the&nbsp; mistake of offering to do the kitchen first, and after scrubbing the sink, counters, and stove as well as taking out the trash, I go back into my room for some TV. I get a knock on my door.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Did you vacuum the kitchen?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course I didn't fucking vacuum the kitchen, the floor is WOOD. I used a goddamn broom like a normal human.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well it's Korea, they vacuum wood." Good for them. I don't. And I'm slightly offended that my thorough sweeping wasn't "good enough," because I actually made an effort which isn't usually my M.O. regarding cleaning.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next week I was scheduled to do the living room. The living room that NO ONE has sat in the entire week, so there is NOTHING to clean. I took a quick peek and saw nothing that required cleaning, so I went back to my life.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>Later that day... "Don't forget to clean the living room."</div><div><br /></div><div>"No one used it. There's nothing to clean."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes there is. The floor needs to be vacuumed, and it gets dusty." Again with the vacuuming wood. And how does one week's worth of dust harm you if you don't set foot in that goddamned room?? Also are you my mom? Wait, no. My mom isn't unreasonable and has never asked me to do something that doesn't need to be done.</div><div><br /></div><div>A day after I didn't clean a room that was already clean, I got a note on my bedroom door about how I needed to clean the clean place. Guy roommate, who had been to the doctor twice in the past week and was on a ton of meds, who had been told to STAY HOME from the school event the day before because he was sick, also got a note on his door to clean the kitchen. ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS WITH THIS SHIT?</div><div><br /></div><div>For the next week, I avoided any part of the apartment that wasn't my room or the bathroom. I didn't need to see her and be told to clean the living room for the 50th time. I didn't cook a single thing. I got food delivered and ate it in my room with the door closed. I didn't need to be nagged to do something unnecessary.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last night, being Saturday (designated cleaning day by the apartment emperor), she decided to talk to us about cleaning and how we weren't doing it. I finally said what I needed to say:</div><div><br /></div><div>We are at school all week. Not one person sits on the couch the entire week. I might go into the kitchen once a day for 10 minutes, and I always clean up after myself. The hallway between my room and guy roommate's room doesn't need to be cleaned, and if it does, that should be up to the people who use the damn hallway (i.e. not you). Once a week for intense deep cleaning is unreasonable. The kitchen is IMMACULATE -</div><div>*interrupted*</div><div>"The kitchen is so dirty! Look!" *I look around and see spotless counters, no dishes in the sink, and two ramen crumbs on the stove and one on the floor, and am genuinely confused*</div><div><br /></div><div>I try to explain once more why cleaning up after ourselves means we don't need to bust out the Comet every 7th day.&nbsp; MAYBE once a month, but that should be determined after seeing how dirty it gets in a month.</div><div><br /></div><div>"But like no one has ever cleaned behind the microwave! It gets so dusty! And in the microwave!"</div><div><br /></div><div>WHY THE HELL ARE YOU LOOKING BEHIND THE MICROWAVE? WHO CLEANS BEHIND THE MICROWAVE? You shouldn't even MOVE the microwave unless you're throwing it away or moving it out of the damn apartment!</div><div><br /></div><div>...and a closed microwave cannot get dusty inside. That's just not a thing that happens. If your microwave has enough exposure to the outside for dust to get in when it's closed, you need a new fucking microwave.</div><div><br /></div><div>The peace talks ended in somewhat of a stalemate, with the one victory being that our cleaning is now once a month. I am relieved and go to bed.</div><div><br /></div><div>I go out today to buy a big puffy winter coat, and come home to this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-scOPcu56XyI/WfW_Hv5Z4jI/AAAAAAAADdE/a3jkWRGZesA44ZrIiP2SdR3P9GuNEbinwCLcBGAs/s1600/20171029_172422%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-scOPcu56XyI/WfW_Hv5Z4jI/AAAAAAAADdE/a3jkWRGZesA44ZrIiP2SdR3P9GuNEbinwCLcBGAs/s640/20171029_172422%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div>Please, feel free to zoom in and read the whole thing. I'll wait.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yep, that's 3 pages of how and when we're supposed to clean. Things that are necessary - 1) taking out trash, 2) cleaning the sink drain (goddamn no garbage disposals in Korea), 3) possibly cleaning the stove depending on how much it's been used/how dirty it is, 4) sweeping (with a BROOM) the wood floor to clean little pieces of stuff that end up on the floor.</div><div><br /></div><div>Wiping the outside of the cupboards? Are we splashing food on the cupboards now? How messy do you think we are? I'm not making smoothies without a lid on the blender or something, jesus.</div><div><br /></div><div>Clean the OUTSIDE and inside of the microwave? Has anyone even USED the microwave since I've lived here? I've never heard it being used. Unfortunately for myself, microwave meals are hard to come by in Korea. Also cleaning the windows in the kitchen? Once again, what are we splashing on the windows??</div><div><br /></div><div>And the schedule going into next year? Uh, nope. The next single apartment is opening up at the end of November, I'll be out of here in a month. And I doubt guy roommate will stay any longer than he has to, which will likely be January. Not sure why you think we'll both be living in the temporary apartment in April...</div><div><br /></div><div>But yes, a 3 page note telling us exact dates and specifically which nooks and crannies are supposed to be cleaned. Not a group consensus, but what one individual believes is necessary. I don't know who made her Apartment Gestapo, but it sure as hell wasn't by vote. Just one month until I return to solitude and my own place...</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-50515559574351014572017-10-11T07:29:00.001-07:002017-10-13T07:54:59.908-07:00STRANGE THINGS ARE AFOOT AT THE (CIRCLE K)OREAEvery culture has things that others don't understand, and Korea is no exception. Luckily I have found that squat toilets are relatively rare, unlike mainland China, so no bathroom-related disasters have happened...yet.<br /><br />But don't worry, their bathrooms aren't devoid of all strangeness. Weird thing number 1: often times there is no toilet paper in the bathroom. However, there IS toilet paper somewhere nearby - perhaps on the wall outside the bathrooms (between the men's and women's), or behind the counter at the cafe. This requires you to have a relatively good idea exactly how much TP you're actually going to need BEFORE you use the bathroom. Certain situations this isn't a problem. Others, well, we've all had those times when we've needed more TP than originally anticipated - which is MUCH EASIER to deal with if you have it right there with you, instead of making that agonizing decision before you have all the facts.<br /><br />At school there's another small problem. I actually mean literally small. On each floor, there's a girls' and a boys' restroom, usually each containing two stalls. The first day at school I had to use the restroom, and one of the stalls was occupied. I walked in to the open stall and was horrified when I saw that I would have to pee in a tiny, child-sized toilet that was barely a foot off the ground and half as wide as my ass. There was no sign of the other stall becoming available, so I sucked it up and sat down on a comically small toilet, hoping to all that is holy that I wouldn't break a child's toilet on the first day of school.<br /><br />The other problem was that there was no lock on the door. It closed, but I had no way to keep any random child from flinging the door open at any moment. Picture Will Ferrell in Elf sitting on an elf chair. Now switch that to a toilet, and have him desperately grasping the door handle with one hand, and you have my situation. Luckily the bathroom visit ended without incident, and I got out and washed my hands.<br /><br />Weird thing number 2: the handwashing facilities are completely inadequate for one reason or another. The options are either a) no soap nor any place for soap to exist, b) soap, but no hand drying implement such as paper towels or a blow dryer, or c) neither soap NOR a hand dryer. I would say the majority of situations fall into category (b). Because not washing your hands is gross and unsanitary, I will often find myself with clean, dripping hands that I have to fling about wildly as I search for a place to dry them, eventually settling on my jeans as a towel replacement. Do Koreans&nbsp; just wander around with wet hands all day? Or do their hands magically soak up water so that drying is unnecessary?<br /><br />Another weird thing: THERE ARE NO TRASH CANS. ANYWHERE. EVER. This place is insanely clean. There is never litter or trash thrown about, and you only see a pile of trash on trash day by the curb. Such a clean system must be a result of many trash cans, right? WRONG. I can walk 5-6 blocks and not run past a single trash can the entire way. In a very urban part of the city, where anywhere else in the world there would be trash cans every 100 feet. So I'll get an iced tea, drink it as I walk, then be stuck holding the empty cup FOREVER because I cannot find a single appropriate place to throw it away. Restaurants have no trash cans. Office buildings, none. The gym, also none. Malls, NOPE. WHERE DO THEY PUT THEIR TRASH? WHY AM I THE ONLY PERSON WALKING AROUND HOLDING EMPTY CUPS ALL THE DAMN TIME??? If I die in Korea, I guarantee there will be an empty plastic cup in my hand when I do.<br /><br />Final weird thing of the day: no napkins. I'm seeing a trend here about inadequate facilities for hand maintenance. When you go to a restaurant, you are lucky if they provide you with one single, small square cocktail napkin. You can't find napkins by the straws and silverware like most places. I keep wondering, do Koreans just not get their hands dirty? EVER? How do you not need to wipe your hands, mouth, chin, whatever while you're eating? How can an entire population NOT BE MESSY?<br /><br />I got dinner tonight at a big food court in a department store. As I brought my (napkinless) tray to an empty seat, I noticed that all the tables were very clean with no trash or food particles on them. This wouldn't be surprising except for the complete and utter lack of people employed to clean tables. No one was walking around cleaning tables. So basically, Koreans eat ALL KINDS of food, spill nothing on the table or themselves, get nothing on their hands, and somehow leave the table spotless and immaculate WITHOUT THE HELP OF A NAPKIN. I am starting to feel like a giant slobby mess, because I can't eat noodles without getting sauce on my face, or eat certain things without getting something on my hands, or having a tiny crumb fall onto the table. I am the person who gets EXTRA napkins because I'm likely to make more of a mess than normal people, so now I'm super self conscious about eating in public for fear that napkins will not be made available and I'll have to walk out with red sauce all over my chin and curry on my hands.<br /><br />And just FYI, the next time I went into the bathroom at school I saw that the occupied stall was in fact a full-sized toilet and I didn't need to use the kiddy potty at all... Whoopsie.Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-36519489855652875502017-09-19T05:34:00.000-07:002017-09-19T05:34:48.293-07:00UNORGANIZED BLOG ABOUT KOREASo hey, what's up? I live in Korea now. I've been here for a whole week and three days. I'm practically a native. Lots of things have happened, but I'm unorganized so it's going to seem like a cat going all nimbly-bimbly from tree to tree.<br /><br />First things first. My arm itches and therefore this issue is at the forefront of my mind. They have bugs here. Ones that bite you. I don't love this. I spent the last 7 years in a mosquito-free zone, so I'd kind of forgotten the joy that is being a bug buffet. I currently have 5 bites on my right arm, 3 on my left hand, and one ON MY FACE. It looks like a zit BUT IT'S NOT. Ugh.<br /><br />In the day time I go to school. I teach kids from age 6 to 12. I only want to murder certain ones, which is a giant step for me. To be fair, the other teachers want to murder the same kids, so I'm not alone in my judgment. They're actually pretty cute - cute as in "children don't make me want to flee" but still not cute as in "I want my own." Giving them back is the best part about being a teacher.<br /><br />One of my favorite things is the kids' English names. Just like when I was Juanita in Spanish class, or Gabrielle in French class, the kids have English names for English class. Their parents gave them the names, which is insanely hilarious. I personally have about 4 Elsas, one Sia, an Olaf and an Elvis. Even though those names are funny, nothing beats calling a 6-year-old Korean kid "Steve" like he's the guy at the watercooler at work.<br /><br />I don't win the name game, though. My first week when I was watching people's classes, one of the other teachers had a kid who had decided the name his parents chose for English class wasn't going to cut it. The teachers let him pick a new name, and as all good children would when thinking of what they want to be called at school, he named himself "T Rex." This was only made better by the fact that he was acting up that day, so the teacher had to sternly say "T Rex" multiple times and I had to hide my face from laughter. T Rex was only matched by a kid in a different class who found himself in a similar dissatisfaction with his chosen name - but this one named himself Laser. I have to give him some cool points for that one.<br /><br />Here some answers to questions you might have about the rest of my life in Korea:<br /><br />- Yes, I do eat kimchi every day.<br />- I also don't wear shoes for 90% of the day. I found out that the "take off your shoes" thing extends at least to schools, perhaps other workplaces. So I bought a lot of cute socks.<br />- Koreans don't sweat. I am personally taking it upon myself to represent the sweat of every human in America so they are able to accurately imagine a country full of sweaty assholes.<br />- They have rain here. It's a thing.<br />- Yes, there are Korean beauty stores on every block, and yes I have bought many things from them.<br />- They play kpop in stores and restaurants and I finally feel like I've found people that understand me.<br />- My students occasionally call me "Kimchi Teacher"<br />- They also think that I chose a name for myself in Korean, since they have English names, and they keep asking me what my Korean name is. I tell them Kim. This is technically true.<br /><br />If I raved about the Hong Kong and Singapore subways being beacons of cleanliness and modernity, I must take a step back and admit that HOLY SHIT I AM WRONG and Korea is the cleanest place on the planet. If someone dropped food on the subway, they could definitely pick it up off the ground and eat it - however, this would never happen because they wouldn't dare eat food on their clean subway for fear of soiling it.<br /><br />My apartment has a hot water switch. This is not intuitive. The first day I stood in the shower for like 10 minutes waiting for the hot water to get to my damn showerhead. It never came, and I took a cold shower. Twice more I have decided to shower, forgotten the hot water switch, gotten completely undressed and into the shower, and just given up and taken a cold shower because that was easier than getting dressed in dirty clothes to walk across the place to turn on hot water I will use for 5 minutes. Yes, I am a nevernude, but currently I also live with two other humans in a three bedroom, so I can't just go running across the place in a towel. I get my own place in a couple of months.<br /><br />If you'll excuse me, I must go now, because there's an insane thunderstorm and this a super fun new novelty for me.Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-28681551451356946862017-06-14T23:19:00.000-07:002017-06-14T23:19:10.329-07:00THE WELLI live at the bottom of a well. When I think back, I can't remember how long I've been here, or how I got here in the first place. Did I fall in on my own? Was I pushed? Perhaps a little of both?<br /><br />I have everything I need to physically live here in my well. Food, a warm bed. I'm able to see what's going on outside the well on my computer, but I myself cannot actually leave. There are no ropes or ladders to let me out, and the walls are too tall to climb without tools.<br /><br />There are people right outside the well. There used to be a lot - I could yell up and someone would come sit on the edge of the well to talk. For a couple of hours, I'd forget I was in the well; I was just talking to my friend, being a normal person. I liked it when people would come to talk. At first I could yell and someone would almost always come, but now people have gone to other places, places where they can't hear me when I yell. If I'm lucky, and I yell loud enough and long enough, someone shows up. But sometimes no one comes at all.<br /><br />To pass the time, I watch what's happening up there on my computer. I can see my friends and family, I know they're safe and happy. Sometimes I tell them what's going on in the well, just to let them know I'm still here, but living in a well doesn't create great stories or photos like the outside world does. I'd tell them more, but there isn't more to say. "Hey guys, still in the well. I'll see you soon, I hope."<br /><br />Some people think it's my fault that I can't get out of the well. Regardless of how I got there, they can't see that I need help climbing out. They think I'm not trying hard enough, but that's because they've never seen the well from the inside. They don't understand why I can't simply climb the walls like Spiderman, or how a string of shoelaces tied together is a nice thought, but won't get me anywhere.<br /><br />More than a couple of times I've been thrown ropes, thick ones with knots to help me climb - I'll get halfway up the wall and the rope will turn to sand, letting me fall back down. Sometimes it takes a few days to get over the pain from the fall. I've gotten almost all the way out a few times, only to have someone let go of the other end, dropping me back to where I started with a bunch of bruises.<br /><br />Every couple of weeks, the guardian of the well comes to visit. He sits on the edge of the well for 50 minutes, EXACTLY 50 minutes, and we try to figure out new ways of getting me out. When he gets up to leave, I have a little renewed confidence that I can find a way out of the well. Then I go back to watching the outside world on the screen. I look up; it's so high, so far to the top. I look back at the screen, wishing I had that view.<br /><br />It feels like I've tried everything to climb out. Making cracks in the wall for foot and hand-holds, using pieces of broken rope to make another, being so tired and delirious that I believe for a few hours that a popsicle-stick ladder will hold my weight. And then I have to deal with the people who tell me there's only one way up. If I don't go up this way, I'll never make it. But why can't I try this way? I mean, we're all working towards the same goal here. The fact that I use bedsheets instead of a well-made expensive gym rope shouldn't make a difference - if it gets me out, I'm OUT.<br /><br />To the people that pass above and look down, I wave. I smile, exchange some small talk. Sometimes I make jokes. The passers-by don't notice how deep the well is. They just notice there's a nice girl who told them a funny story as they walked by. And I keep telling the stories, because I want them to walk by again, and again. They think I'm down here because I like it. They don't know I can't get out.<br /><br />How long before I can get out? Who's going to throw me a rope that holds my weight until they can grab my hand and pull me the rest of the way out? I'm not asking for an elevator, or to be lifted out in a helicopter. I just want the tools to be able to climb out myself. Why won't anyone loan me their tools?<br /><br /><br />Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-35324875546301468082017-05-25T22:20:00.000-07:002017-05-25T22:20:22.024-07:00HOW KPOP MADE ME A CREEPY STALKER (now with photos!)I'm going to be real with you for a second. Most of you know that I am stupidly obsessed with k-dramas and k-pop, but if I've managed to keep the secret from you, now you know. I have the entertainment taste of a 14-year-old Asian girl.<br /><br />I admit I've been watching k-dramas for a few years now. Sometime after I came back from Hong Kong I discovered one on channel 18 (for non-LA people, that's the Korean/Chinese/Vietnamese channel that rotates shows from those countries) when I was trying to fill the void in my heart left by my beautiful temporary homeland. Since it had subtitles, I ended up watching til the end - and I was like "HOLY CRAP THIS IS KIND OF AMAZING." Thanks to Netflix and their large library of foreign television and films I soon was able to watch them every minute of every day and dream of the magical life I'd have when I moved to Korea and had (at least) three guys fall for my nerdy, quirky charm.<br /><br />K-pop is newer in my life. I honestly don't remember what got me into it, but it was only about two years ago and at first it was only one particular girl group - 2NE1. I'm pretty sure it was via music video on YouTube because sweet shit, Korea drops some wicked crazy budgets for music videos. I desperately wanted to uproot my life and become a k-pop backup dancer.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zXt3lT1Qg9U/WSeheJcbTTI/AAAAAAAADWI/RdD5fzswxTMrHph02qWufznVdoxEI4RwwCLcB/s1600/2ne1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="960" height="239" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zXt3lT1Qg9U/WSeheJcbTTI/AAAAAAAADWI/RdD5fzswxTMrHph02qWufznVdoxEI4RwwCLcB/s320/2ne1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Minzy, Bom, CL and Dara</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So maybe I listened to them on repeat in my car for months and know all the words to their songs (in Korean), and maybe I'd super geek out if I got to hang out with them. And just maybe I started following some blogs/websites that posted about k-pop and sometimes k-dramas.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Now here's where the difference between American culture and Korean culture comes into play. I may love Melissa McCarthy, and go see her movies and watch her when she's on talk shows, but I don't know her birthday, relationship history, home address and/or what she had for breakfast. If I saw her somewhere I might go up and say hi, because she seems like she'd be nice, but there would be no mob of people following her begging for her autograph. Even people who might want to do that with, say, Brad Pitt, wouldn't actually mob him for his autograph. Celebrities here (excluding the young ones who get into shit and have embarrassing photos taken in clubs) are generally respected and treated as normal people even if you're secretly geeking out so hard on the inside.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Well, in Korea, likely because their number of true celebrities is much smaller than ours, they get stalky. I'd read maybe two articles about my lovely 2NE1 ladies before I knew that Bom and Dara were born in 1984, CL's birthday is the day before mine, and that Minzy owns a professional dance studio in Seoul. The articles on these sites would literally report on a celebrity being spotted at the airport and followed out by a giant mob of creepy fans who somehow knew they'd be there ahead of time. They'd report on what someone's instagram post meant. Whether because these two celebrities were with 4 feet of each other WERE THEY DATING?? Like it got ridiculous. But I bought into it ALLLLL.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Fast forward to a year and a half ago when CL started debuting solo songs in the US, via YouTube music video. I started watching other videos on YouTube, since it selects something "relevant" to play after your chosen video is done. I watched all the 2NE1 videos. ALL OF THEM. Multiple times. I started thinking, "man, I wish they'd come play here in LA, I know there are enough k-pop fans to fill an arena." THEN MY DREAMS CAME TRUE. In November of last year, CL did a solo tour and I bought tickets in ONE MINUTE, as well as a long sleeved T so everyone could see HOW BADASS I WAS. I went with a Korean coworker, who sat on the other side of the arena from me, but still, IT WAS SO AMAZING. I FANGIRLED SO HARD. I mean LOOK AT HER.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VxqdbKv83nQ/WSemcDVl75I/AAAAAAAADWY/AXNS3I23WDEm2W6gXQ-Ng7Tr-o7lmeN7wCLcB/s1600/cl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VxqdbKv83nQ/WSemcDVl75I/AAAAAAAADWY/AXNS3I23WDEm2W6gXQ-Ng7Tr-o7lmeN7wCLcB/s400/cl.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sometime in this general time period, my Korean coworker went to Seoul and I told him to buy me something cheap and dumb. He came back with this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--5fEGkGBgmM/WSeoz62J-iI/AAAAAAAADWk/md2Rfg7qckoFKSnt379PuqWyzV1jZs_rwCLcB/s1600/bbsocks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="774" data-original-width="1075" height="230" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--5fEGkGBgmM/WSeoz62J-iI/AAAAAAAADWk/md2Rfg7qckoFKSnt379PuqWyzV1jZs_rwCLcB/s320/bbsocks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">I was blessed with this adorable pack of socks for the boy band, Big Bang. I'd never listened to them, but I knew they existed.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I figured I should get to know Big Bang since they were going to go with me on adventures via my sweaty feet, so I started looking up their music videos. I'd never really been into k-pop boy groups because they all seemed like tiny children and it made me feel like an old lady. But it turns out Big Bang has been around for 10 years. And even the least educated k-pop fan has heard of G-Dragon, the leader:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--j_TSLkJiCM/WSepz9SMnGI/AAAAAAAADWs/00BhMZ4eiXcc8aYHrYCtLmMKBztfhHUvwCLcB/s1600/G-Dragon.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="180" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--j_TSLkJiCM/WSepz9SMnGI/AAAAAAAADWs/00BhMZ4eiXcc8aYHrYCtLmMKBztfhHUvwCLcB/s320/G-Dragon.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">I mean, sweet shit, look at that jawline 😍</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I basically decided to watch all their videos, because well, k-pop videos. I highly recommend you take a viewing of "Fantastic Baby" because the thing is practically fucking art. It's so colorful and fills me with such joy. After a binge-watch of a good handful of Big Bang videos, many of which were from the new album that came out in December, YouTube treated me to some random backstage footage of the boys. Then there was a clip of them on a variety show. Then more clips of them doing normal things. Like literally, these guys have cameras on them 24/7. Unlike American celebrities, you really feel like you know Korean pop stars - they're so accessible to the public that you honestly feel like you know them personally after watching a few shows.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm sure we are all aware of my lifelong love for Bradley Cooper, but even that creepiness doesn't begin to compete with the Korean celebrity creepiness. I have no idea when Bradley's birthday is. I think he lives in Venice and that's only because a friends saw him there. If I saw him in public I'd probably just drool until I was carted away. It's made very clear that Bradley and I are not going to marry.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then, after watching a few videos, I take notice of one of the members. Hmm, he's pretty cute, I think. He also has a really low voice which is insanely attractive for some reason. He goes by TOP in the band, and we are going to get married.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Exhibit A</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifeHskfRuIc/WSev8tR4MlI/AAAAAAAADXE/2bUOBTJt5dw4ZwRb9XJG4Y-R40iMSBI_QCLcB/s1600/top2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1164" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ifeHskfRuIc/WSev8tR4MlI/AAAAAAAADXE/2bUOBTJt5dw4ZwRb9XJG4Y-R40iMSBI_QCLcB/s320/top2.jpg" width="232" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Exhibit B</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dw0ZIdRvdw0/WSeu6p0V65I/AAAAAAAADW8/PW6DebOR7gg4TrApig7GCuqBuPW3d9LgACLcB/s1600/top1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="367" data-original-width="550" height="213" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dw0ZIdRvdw0/WSeu6p0V65I/AAAAAAAADW8/PW6DebOR7gg4TrApig7GCuqBuPW3d9LgACLcB/s320/top1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">WHO HAS CHEEKBONES LIKE THAT? I MEAN REALLY. JUST STOP. Then I watch the video "Bae Bae" (which was apparently banned on tv in Korea for excessive sexual innuendo...) and see this:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AJBIAVV1Nck/WSe03lJPivI/AAAAAAAADXU/SPnt6r4JPsMOT-R8dWCUaz2psYbrJ5HrQCLcB/s1600/top2gif.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="391" height="180" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AJBIAVV1Nck/WSe03lJPivI/AAAAAAAADXU/SPnt6r4JPsMOT-R8dWCUaz2psYbrJ5HrQCLcB/s320/top2gif.gif" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OP9Ckv6jdbg/WSe032DO4XI/AAAAAAAADXY/mLiJ89eOa6IFWIv61N_COwohJUyx8ULWQCLcB/s1600/top1gif.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="540" height="165" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OP9Ckv6jdbg/WSe032DO4XI/AAAAAAAADXY/mLiJ89eOa6IFWIv61N_COwohJUyx8ULWQCLcB/s320/top1gif.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A purple suit, cane, weird contacts, goofy dancing - I fell desperately in love. Especially once I found out that each member had come up with their individual concept for this music video. He's so fucking weird and beautiful and he must be mine.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now herein lies the problem - if he was an American celebrity I'd probably put him as my phone background (not saying I haven't anyway) and randomly find pics of him on Pinterest to post to my ever-growing board of hot guys. HOWEVER, these k-pop websites are dangerous. They want me to know more. There are literally stats pages, like height/weight/etc. Random girls out there know this guy's weight by heart. I don't understand kilos so I conveniently forgot. However, thanks to these websites (and the fact that I'm avoiding mainstream news), I've learned:</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">- his birthday is Nov 4 (he's a Scorpio, which generally means nothing to me except the fact that only two of the guys I've dated/had giant crushes on/etc in my entire life have NOT been Scorpios...)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">- he's hilarious and ridiculous</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">- he loves MODERN DESIGN (OMG)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">- as well as modern art</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">- he went into the Korean military, as is mandatory for all men, on February 9th and is working as a police officer at the Gangnam station for the next 21 months</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">***let me catch my breath here...police officer...😍😍***</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Keep in mind that I did not seek out this information. It was literally all just posted as headlines on these sites. They even post when someone has a weird instagram update and people are confused. So of course I now follow them all on instagram.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">**scroll friend's pic scroll vacation pic scroll OH HEY WHAT'S GDRAGON UP TO TODAY?**</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Well if you really want to know, he's here in LA filming a music video (location undetermined) BUT I do know he's staying in the Hollywood Roosevelt hotel and I got that just from a pic he took out his window - because I'm a fucking detective I was able to locate one of the street signs and a store in the pic and pinpoint the exact location. I WOULDN'T HAVE DONE THIS 3 MONTHS AGO. I AM NOT THIS PERSON.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm the person that sits in Starbucks and watches Michael Cudlitz enjoy a latte on the patio multiple times because I think he's a badass but I'm also entirely too terrified to approach him. I don't have a clue where any celebrities live, other than "probably this general 5 mile radius." But for some reason I read articles that tell me where all these guys live in Seoul and I'm like WAIT WHY ARE YOU ENCOURAGING US? And to be fair I'm WAY less stalky than the people that live there. They actually go try to find these guys.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">BUT SEE NOW I CAN'T STOP. I got on the stalker boat and it's going too fast and I can't jump off. WHY HAVEN'T YOU POSTED ON INSTAGRAM IN 3 DAYS? ARE YOU OKAY? Someone took pictures of TOP in his police uniform visiting an elementary school? Hot shit, let me see that. CL THAT LOOKS LIKE LA IN THE BACKGROUND OF THAT POOL SHOT, WHERE ARE YOU AND CAN I BE YOUR BEST FRIEND? And then the most important question of all...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Do you like blondes who can speak a little Korean (which is probably so charming, with my silly American accent)? I mean, just checking...</div>Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-26058785423492474462017-05-06T16:52:00.000-07:002017-05-06T17:02:23.654-07:00RICH PEOPLE DRESSING LIKE ASSHOLES AGAINWelcome back. Just as I thought I had no more funny left in my life to blog about, it becomes Met Gala season. It's pretty much Hollywood Halloween, since the vast majority of things worn to the gala do not qualify as clothing but rather costumes.<br /><br />I don't know half the people that went, either because I'm now 700 years old or I spend my waking hours watching Korean TV or serial killer documentaries. Regardless, I can still judge you - and judge I shall.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7r9snG3Ayis/WQ5a30dreXI/AAAAAAAADVM/Grl6FD8jizgrLJSf1teP_l8lwQ-i4-OPACLcB/s1600/solange.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7r9snG3Ayis/WQ5a30dreXI/AAAAAAAADVM/Grl6FD8jizgrLJSf1teP_l8lwQ-i4-OPACLcB/s400/solange.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Ah, Solange. You don't seem to be into your sister's "pretty much naked with some rhinestones" look, but sweet merciful shit, it's spring and you're at a gala. I can see how this might be appropriate at the Minnesota Big Moose Ball, but not here. And I wonder...does this coat fit neatly into a tiny bag like the other puffy coats from Uniqlo?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KD1BeEqRxdA/WQ5a3X4XtpI/AAAAAAAADVQ/gXkrkvPH0HcHcFO9zk0eDQ2Eoo2zEzXKwCEw/s1600/thandie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KD1BeEqRxdA/WQ5a3X4XtpI/AAAAAAAADVQ/gXkrkvPH0HcHcFO9zk0eDQ2Eoo2zEzXKwCEw/s400/thandie.JPG" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Thandie Newton mistakenly believed that the theme of this year's gala was "Dia de los Muertos." And I'm pretty sure they sold that dress in Contempo Casuals in 1996.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XvJDNWZnn9g/WQ5iAy2zd4I/AAAAAAAADVk/2Fe2XydAMnwxOkG8dHeajOw-GOTRA4USACLcB/s1600/pharell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XvJDNWZnn9g/WQ5iAy2zd4I/AAAAAAAADVk/2Fe2XydAMnwxOkG8dHeajOw-GOTRA4USACLcB/s400/pharell.jpg" width="265" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Once again, Pharell looks like he's a 10-year-old dressed up by his mom, standing uncomfortably for pictures in clothes he's grown out of. But his wife. So many things to say. 1) THERE ARE NO ARM HOLES. HOW DOES ONE FUNCTION IN SUCH A THING? &nbsp;2) Even if she were able to use her limbs, it would still look like she stole a Teletubby costume from some lost wardrobe closet at a movie studio.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Also, question. If you push her over, does she just roll around like a turtle until someone turns her over?</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-neWnkA34EcU/WQ5iAm7eD_I/AAAAAAAADVg/0IuTYea_85k7dpJE543jm5YrocFCR1pHACLcB/s1600/rhianna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-neWnkA34EcU/WQ5iAm7eD_I/AAAAAAAADVg/0IuTYea_85k7dpJE543jm5YrocFCR1pHACLcB/s400/rhianna.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Rhianna was dressed today by a Project Runway contestant, where the challenge was "use anything and everything you find in your grandma's house." Grandma's gonna be pissed when she finds out she can't finish your Christmas socks because all her yarn was used to wrap up Rhianna's legs.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zoxi1CSjwJs/WQ5a2yg3haI/AAAAAAAADVQ/3VN4cwvG1Vs1IzWFU-_1CzsHL_tHW3zmgCEw/s1600/claire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Zoxi1CSjwJs/WQ5a2yg3haI/AAAAAAAADVQ/3VN4cwvG1Vs1IzWFU-_1CzsHL_tHW3zmgCEw/s320/claire.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Claire, I really appreciate your dedication to showing up after escaping the basement dungeon in the woods. Sorry your shirt got all torn in the ensuing chase, but I'm sure someone from out of town has one of those hotel sewing kits in their bag to help you out.</div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S4xwyFX245k/WQ5a2rUspgI/AAAAAAAADVQ/T3bvc_7Uio86esUV5SVlk5j05CkCdsh9gCEw/s1600/banks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-S4xwyFX245k/WQ5a2rUspgI/AAAAAAAADVQ/T3bvc_7Uio86esUV5SVlk5j05CkCdsh9gCEw/s400/banks.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Elizabeth Banks...your face is so pretty and your hair looks damn fine, but I'm not sure why you decided to wear a Magic Eye dress. If you squint your eyes and stare at it for a few seconds, you can see the image of Harambe.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cXD7Hn3ojNk/WQ5a2mXEZJI/AAAAAAAADVQ/JOQoevEZp48adJ3h1yF1wDGHTlyp_s-cwCEw/s1600/katyperry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cXD7Hn3ojNk/WQ5a2mXEZJI/AAAAAAAADVQ/JOQoevEZp48adJ3h1yF1wDGHTlyp_s-cwCEw/s400/katyperry.jpg" width="293" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I feel like Katy Perry is some sort of child bride attending her wedding ceremony somewhere in remote Mongolia, where she'll meet her 70-year-old husband for the first time as he takes off her red veil. They'll dance around a fire in her wedding costume, then she will be banished to a closet in her husband's home.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-30rrx7kLxuk/WQ5a3ZQ241I/AAAAAAAADVY/kvCjZHUi-9QdB1ql9qs1a9MQ0DiEJfV0gCEw/s1600/who%2Bknows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-30rrx7kLxuk/WQ5a3ZQ241I/AAAAAAAADVY/kvCjZHUi-9QdB1ql9qs1a9MQ0DiEJfV0gCEw/s400/who%2Bknows.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I know everyone wears Spanx at these things, but most people wear something OVER their Spanx. I mean, just a suggestion for next time.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_d8VBJbz_x0/WQ5a2yV5szI/AAAAAAAADVQ/_ws1OhOpuzAA_K_L_4pn9H5ybXW_Sd4zwCEw/s1600/madonna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_d8VBJbz_x0/WQ5a2yV5szI/AAAAAAAADVQ/_ws1OhOpuzAA_K_L_4pn9H5ybXW_Sd4zwCEw/s320/madonna.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I could comment on Madonna's military surplus dress that's sold under the name "General Perversion" on Halloween websites, or I could comment on how much work she's had done to her face. Spending thousands of dollars to look 30 again is great, if anyone actually gave a shit about you anymore.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GAXVt86B6lA/WQ5a3AbGrSI/AAAAAAAADVY/Ep0CpTmvQQIDLK2guUhLtJ4yWKX4vAaBACEw/s1600/olsens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GAXVt86B6lA/WQ5a3AbGrSI/AAAAAAAADVY/Ep0CpTmvQQIDLK2guUhLtJ4yWKX4vAaBACEw/s400/olsens.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Olsen twins only come out of their cave twice a year - fashion week and the Met Gala - yet they always look like homeless chicks who are wearing all their clothes at once because they have no place to store them. I don't think I've heard them speak since 1998. I feel this might be a hostage situation. Is that side eye some kind of secret code? Is she asking for help? WE CAN SAVE YOU IF YOU LET US.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-13545038522636580752016-12-07T20:45:00.000-08:002016-12-07T20:45:16.134-08:00FUN TIMES WITH CRIMINALSLet me begin by saying that my time as a DA was probably the most important experiences I have ever had. I was around criminals every single day. Sometimes I would talk to them (and their lawyer, of course). But most of all, I basically got a crash course in behavioral psychology that has been invaluable since I left.<br /><br />Tonight I was on the train (yes, LA does have a train) headed home after a lovely and fulfilling day of reviewing documents. I'm always aware of my surroundings, but at night, downtown, and on the train are places I'm specifically on my guard. I notice EVERYTHING.<br /><br />In the six-months-worth of time I have taken the train, I've only noticed maybe two or three people ever that I could tell were looking for some kind of victim - an open purse, someone with headphones playing on a phone they could grab, basically an easy grab-and-go situation. I make sure my body language shows that I'm paying attention and that I'm probably not the person you want to try to mess with. Generally looking someone directly in their eyes is enough to have them change their mind about you. And fear - just like the movies, "they can smell fear." I never look afraid. I look like I know exactly where I'm going, what I'm doing, who's around me etc.<br /><br />We were about three stops away from the end when the girl sitting next to me got off. Then a guy with wicked BO sat down next to me and I had to hold my breath, but for only one station. Luckily, he got off, but as I turned my head back towards the door and saw a guy come in. He was creepin'. I really don't have a better word for it. Walking kinda slowly, checking everybody out. Then he comes and sits right next to me. There was a completely empty seat in front of me, but he sat next to me.<br /><br />He also didn't move. He didn't look at me, he didn't shift to get comfortable, he didn't look around. This was fucking suspicious as shit. I made sure that I didn't shirk away next to the window as though I was scared of him so perhaps he'd decide I wasn't the best target. My purse, as usual, was nicely secured on my arm in my lap. The way he was acting, I thought he might try to grab my purse and run out at the next station, but he didn't. Wouldn't have gotten it off my arm anyway.<br /><br />Train gets to North Hollywood. Everyone exits. Despite having to exit before me since he physically had to for me to get out, he appeared a couple of feet behind me. I was still in a crowd of nearly a hundred people, so I wasn't creeped out yet. I walk faster to get in front of this crazy lady with a dog stroller. &nbsp;Get on the second escalator. Hmm, still a couple of feet behind me. When we got outside where people are being picked up, I turn and begin walking towards my car - when I saw him in my periphery following me I decided to try something.<br /><br />I walked over to a bench area where a guy was on his phone, and I stopped to get my keys out. Well whaddaya know, the stalker stopped too. Because there were so many people being picked up right there and my car was one row back, I decided to see if he'd go that far. He kept about 20 feet back, but he followed me the entire time, so I decided to walk in circles. Then I walked back to the station. Dude, I can fucking see you, are you kidding me? He was obviously a very bad criminal. So for a few minutes I walked around the crowded area to see if he'd give up. I thought he had, so I head back out towards my car. Turn around, guess who's there, 20 feet back, coming back to the parking lot.<br /><br />When I get to my car, I just turned around and watched him. He wasn't stopping so I headed back to the pick up lane. This time he just sort of stood a few feet away from my car and lit a cigarette, thinking I'd come back while he was there (SERIOUSLY HOW STUPID ARE YOU?). I literally stand in a handicapped parking space next to a car with a man and his daughter waiting on someone for two minutes. I watched him. He was just waiting. Finally he seemed to give up and headed back to the station area, since I was too close to people.<br /><br />After another couple of minutes, I thought he'd completely given up, so I headed back towards my car. I turned back and saw him speeding up behind me, since he'd given himself too much room and I might be able to get in and away before he could reach me. And then the beautiful sight of black and white passed my lane and I just sprinted towards the car, waving at the sheriffs to stop. I told them this guy had been following me for 10 minutes back and forth to my car, and we walk around the corner and there he is, just waiting.<br /><br />The officers detained him, searched him, and started asking him questions. I stood back and waited, knowing they'd want to talk to me. Eventually one of them came over and asked me what had happened, and I told him the whole thing. They said he had no weapons on him (whew) but had admitted to being arrested before. They sat him down on a curb while they went through all the shit he had in his pockets and got my information.<br /><br />Since obviously he hadn't yet committed a crime, the sheriff told me they were going to run his record and "hopefully he has a warrant," but also said they'd keep him facing the other way if I wanted to get in my car and go so he didn't see which way I went. He was pretty dim, so the officers weren't too worried about him remembering my car. I thanked them and went on my way. &nbsp;A+, LASD. There when I needed you.<br /><br />But I noticed him because I know criminals. Most people don't. He didn't stand out in any way physically or by his clothes, but by his actions. Someone who didn't know what to look for likely would have been followed to their car and robbed. So be careful. Watch people's demeanor, and for the love of god look behind you at night. Walk in circles. Do what you need to do to make yourself know you're safe.Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-66088454338143436302016-12-04T02:25:00.002-08:002016-12-04T02:25:31.927-08:00SALESPEOPLE, I MEAN SERIOUSLY.Honest to goodness question: does ANYBODY actually like it when a store employee yells "hello!" or "Hi, how are you?" when you enter a store? Can we just get rid of that whole thing and have salespeople standing around visible in case you actually need to ask for help? PLEASE?<br /><br />I have worked retail. I know both sides. I was once a person who was told by a manager to "greet everyone as they enter the store" and "make sure everyone knows your name." You know what? NO. Here's how shit works.<br /><br />When I'd stand near the front of the store and someone would come in, they display certain behaviors. Option A - they look right at me and seem friendly. Option B - they don't look at me but also don't look like they'd eat me if I spoke to them. Option C - they intentionally keep their eyes off me and have a look that tells me they do not wish to be bothered. Option D - they not only don't look at me, but they notice my presence and enter as far away as possible and immediately get lost in the racks.<br /><br />Despite being a socially anxious misanthrope, I read people very well. I can tell who is friendly and who is not, who is being friendly only because they want something, who is in a bad mood. They don't even have to speak. So when I was a retail employee, if option A or B entered the store, I would nicely tell them hello, and generally they would smile and say hi back. I knew instinctively not to bother C or D. How? Because they are me. That, and my manager would be around so I'd have to speak to them and they'd flat out ignore me, so my point was proven.<br /><br />There seems to be a new trend of all the employees of a business yelling "HI WELCOME" the instant you walk in, as though they're in a race to see who can say it the fastest. It's bizarre and creepy. I know they were told to do that, but who on earth thought that was a good idea? "Hey, let's get five people to yell at this customer as she enters the store so she's bombarded by humans and also has no idea which one to respond to, if any."<br /><br />First of all, "welcome" is fucking weird. It isn't a question, so it doesn't really require a response, but it also leaves you vaguely confused if just saying hi back is enough. Also, "welcome" is something you say to someone entering your home, because if they just walked in off the street that might not go over too well. Of course I'm fucking welcome at Subway, your sign says open and I'm about to give you my money. If you're welcoming someone to a place that is not your home, it better be as they go through customs at the airport or have stumbled upon your candy factory accidentally and it's followed by "go ahead and try anything you want."<br /><br />Second, we both know you don't mean it. Don't look at me and try to convince me for one minute that you took that retail job because you ACTUALLY deeply wanted everyone to feel welcomed into this store that barely pays you enough to get by. I know you don't care how I am, and I'm super fine with that. I didn't care how anybody was when I was in retail, but I knew I had to say it. Unless you're working on commission, you don't even give a flying shit if I'm in the store at all, because you're making money by just standing there.<br /><br />"Can I help you find anything?" Yeah, I was wondering where your kosher snacks are...? "Ma'am, this is Forever21." WELL THEN WHY DID YOU ASK??? Do people really come in and ask "I just want to know where the solid blue crop tops are, I'm in a hurry"? The most ironic part is that I hear this the most in small stores, yet where you would NEED to ask something like that would be in a large department store - "Can I help you find anything?" "MOTHER OF GOD I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR THE RESTROOM FOR TEN MINUTES AND AM ABOUT TO PISS IN A LOUBOUTIN, WHERE THE HELL IS IT??"<br /><br />"Are you looking for a specific size?"<br />NO, I JUST WANTED TO TOUCH THIS SHIRT BECAUSE IT LOOKED SOFT. AND IT IS. GO AWAY.<br /><br />"Shopping for Christmas gifts today?"<br />No, I'm bored out of my fucking mind and have nowhere to go in the day but the goddamned mall. Also are people like me really buying $400 purses for OTHER PEOPLE? Do I look famous?<br /><br />"What can I help you with today?"<br />FIND EVERYTHING IN THE STORE THAT IS UNDER $10, I'LL WAIT<br /><br />*at the register* "Did you find everything okay today?"<br />I HAD A DEVIL OF A TIME FINDING THIS SHIRT BECAUSE I HAD TO BURROW UNDER THE CARPET BUT THE TANK TOPS WERE QUITE CONVENIENTLY PLACED ON A TABLE, THANKS FOR ASKING<br /><br />And I'll finish with an actual exchange I had a few years back in a clothing store:<br />"Are you shopping for Valentine's Day?"<br />"Do you sell boyfriends?"<br /><br />Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-1706278418366824652016-12-02T17:20:00.000-08:002016-12-02T17:20:14.713-08:00GETTING OLD AND THE BILLION-STEP KOREAN SKIN CARE ROUTINESup. I'm old. I mean, I can't really deny it anymore. Even though I feel like I did when I was just a wee law student, I am three months away from being old enough to run for president. Yeah.<br /><br />I've come to that point in my life where I get huffy if someone doesn't card me for booze. I have repeatedly responded to an underestimation of my age in the 20s with "Well aren't YOU just the nicest person I've met today," thereby making them think I'm actually OLDER than I am.<br /><br />Consistently I would say that people average my age between 5-7 years younger than I really am, which is pretty good if you ask me. So as the resident "looks younger than her age" person, I am going to share my tips on *not* aging.<br /><br />1. Sleep a LOT. Like live in your bed. Being unemployed and/or chronically depressed can really help your skin.<br /><br />2. Don't have kids. Just like all presidents seem to age 20 years in their one or two terms, you bump up your age each time you deal with a newborn...going back to my sleep thing - never again can you sleep 10 hours just because you have a bed. And then pretty much every day is stressful for the rest of your life so the youth melts out of you and into your large glass of wine.<br /><br />3. Have very blond hair. I am getting a shitton of greys right about now and noooobody can tell! Boom.<br /><br />4. Don't drink a ton. I'm not entirely sure why my 20s didn't catch up with me in that department, because I definitely had my share, but my body now tells me to simmer down in the middle of my first glass of beer. I get hungover while I'm still drunk. Suffice it to say, I don't really care for drinking much anymore, and pretty much keep it to when someone actually invites me out to a bar (I have no life, you guys). I understand drowning one's sorrows, but I generally just go get better meds. Wine probably would be cheaper, but alcohol wears off and meds are forever! *creepy smile*<br /><br />5. Don't tan on your face. I completely understand wanting to be tan, as I am Princess Snowflake and can't get enough self tanner, but for the love of god, don't go into a tanning bed. I've done it exactly three times - each time I was laying there contemplating which organs I was frying from the inside out and how many years I just lost off my life, but when I was done and looked in the mirror, I saw DAMN, I look a LOT better tan. Now I just use lotions or airbrush if I'm feeling fancy.<br /><br />But for reals though, slather that 50 on your face and wear a hat, get a real tan on the rest of you and make up for it with self tanner and bronzer.<br /><br />6. Become obsessed with all things Korean and start doing the 435 step Korean Beauty Routine: How to Look Like a Preteen at Age 50:<br /><br /><ul><li><b>oil cleanser</b> - When I first heard of this, I was like aw HELL naw, my face is oily as shit, I'm not putting more oil on it! But after I read some shit on it, I took a trial run. It feels so, so wrong, but then you immediately get to wash it off and that feels so rewarding.</li><li><b>normal cleanser</b> - This is just your average foaming cleanser, but they have formulas to do different things - like charcoal for zits (wtf?), or collegen for wrinkles, or "brightening" which is the secret term for "whitening" and is very much an Asian thing I learned in Hong Kong...</li><li><b>sheet mask</b> - These are the awesome things that look like the shroud of Turin with holes for your eyes and mouth and they're all gooey and gross and stick to your face. You leave it on for 10-15 minutes, which is kinda relaxing, while texting ugly pics to your friends of your weird mummy ghost face, or cool tiger face if you happen to buy one that's got an animal design on it. Then you take it off and rub the leftover goop into your face. It feels cold and nice, and they usually smell good.</li><li><b>toner/essence</b> - I honestly have no idea what these things are, I just get free samples that tell me to put it on before my regular moisturizer. So I do.</li><li><b>night cream</b> - I have two - one is literally made from snail mucus and the other is to fix spots. Yes, some days I rub snail mucus on my face, and yes, I like it. Then I feel weird about liking it and try to think of something else. My other night cream is "brightening" - but it's to fix these stupid dark spots I get from birth control. Apparently you also get it when you're pregnant, but it goes away when you're done. Since I plan on staying on birth control until my uterus falls out, I will have to deal with my stupid dark spots with my Korean whitening cream.</li></ul><div>Then of course I follow that up by using Korean foundation so my skin looks like that of a small baby or someone who airbrushed their photo a little too much.&nbsp;</div><div><br /></div><div>But yeah, if you want to look hot, do all those things. And make sure they were made in Korea, or Japan. It's becoming "trendy" but don't fall for it, Americans haven't perfected the art of the overly intense beauty routine (I mean, we did produce Tan Mom). There are Nature Republic and The Face Shops in NY and LA, and then the rest I get on Amazon or pick up a ton when I go to Asia and make my friends (ahem Amanda) bring refills when they come back to visit.</div><div><br /></div><div>Good luck.</div><div>- Almost 35 With No Wrinkles, Bitch</div>Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-26429939471618854982016-10-01T23:51:00.000-07:002016-10-01T23:51:12.535-07:00MAKEUP TRENDS DISCUSSED BY THIS IDIOTI spend a lot of time in Sephora. Probably an unhealthy amount of time, especially considering I keep buying the same shades of lipstick and eyeshadow that I already have in other brands. The rest of the time I'm just at the mall and realize I look like hot garbage and go in to use the product testers to fix my blemishes and melting mascara. I have no shame.<br /><br />As a makeup lover and abundant user (despite my lack of product diversity), I'm confused with a few current makeup trends. Sure, it's not quite on the level of 80s blue eyeshadow (or the white eyeshadow I rocked in 2005, yikes), but some of these confuse me.<br /><br />1) Blue/purple/black lipstick<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e23cA2VZlHU/V_ClDi0Z8SI/AAAAAAAADF4/-o0s1190liYDi_o2eThdMnCmxVB5LGp3wCLcB/s1600/fc9c45c8f7c1e2473a1bf7d2e64b1d50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e23cA2VZlHU/V_ClDi0Z8SI/AAAAAAAADF4/-o0s1190liYDi_o2eThdMnCmxVB5LGp3wCLcB/s1600/fc9c45c8f7c1e2473a1bf7d2e64b1d50.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">﻿</div>First, I'm not hatin on blue. It's my favorite color. I have too many blue things. Shirts, pants, bras, underwear, shoes, toothbrushes, cake... but I digress. Blue has its place, and that place is not your lips. Until 2016, blue lips generally meant you needed urgent medical attention and/or could be suffering from hypothermia, but now it means you want to be like Kylie Jenner.<br /><br />People, just stop. We have Halloween, isn't that enough for you? This trend was probably pioneered by high fashion magazines with no attempt to make it mainstream - I mean for the love of god editorial models have worn gold leaf on their skin and had actual spiders on their faces, so I'm pretty sure they don't mean for any of their posture-offending photos to result in actual products being produced and used. You think you look like that girl above. You don't. You look like this:<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mReVThpq9ec/V_Cnf_jhLdI/AAAAAAAADGI/ma7XzqXB_cs9Hl392G20YnudulhYySCewCLcB/s1600/tumblr_n5xweo31Ur1rtuubao1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mReVThpq9ec/V_Cnf_jhLdI/AAAAAAAADGI/ma7XzqXB_cs9Hl392G20YnudulhYySCewCLcB/s320/tumblr_n5xweo31Ur1rtuubao1_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Yeah. Think about waking up next to that face.<br /><br />2) "Highlighter"<br /><br />Every cosmetics company has some version of this now, which is sparkly-ish powder or liquid that you put around your eyes in some specific manner that's supposed to "highlight" your face. You're&nbsp;supposed to look "dewy," where the light catches your skin.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wIPQ4VzdgQE/V_CohCiDKcI/AAAAAAAADGQ/caseveu_0vEnNKUkPwV18MuRknA6rBegwCLcB/s1600/zendaya-highlighter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wIPQ4VzdgQE/V_CohCiDKcI/AAAAAAAADGQ/caseveu_0vEnNKUkPwV18MuRknA6rBegwCLcB/s320/zendaya-highlighter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">﻿</div>GUYS. No one needs to BUY highlighter. Seriously. We all make our own. IT'S CALLED SWEAT. This is what highlighter is supposed to make you look like, but I managed to achieve that exact same look walking around Singapore in 90 degrees and 90% humidity. Want to go out to the club and don't have any highlighter? Park 4 blocks away and walk there. BOOM, highlighter achieved for $0.<br /><br />Also since when did being a ball of sweat become the in thing? I thought people carried powder in their purse to cover up shine, or had that oil-absorbing paper. SERIOUSLY I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO THINK ANYMORE.<br /><br />3) Contouring<br /><br />I as much as anyone mourn my lack of cheekbones, but I think there's a reasonable stopping point that comes way before painting your face like a tiger and rubbing it in. Call it laziness, call it "I'm pretty okay with the way I look" - whatever, I don't need 7 different colors of makeup with strategic placement to act as my own personal photoshop. I mean, people are going to find out what you really look like at some point, and if it's your significant other, I'd be a little worried about their reaction, since you look like a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PERSON.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q3GnAs82fgM/V_CruVjkDfI/AAAAAAAADGc/AfkGRFLxMzwJZ51oki-xdv5hBibPpZswACLcB/s1600/76c9a138674feb2066e6fcc86d48f1b7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-q3GnAs82fgM/V_CruVjkDfI/AAAAAAAADGc/AfkGRFLxMzwJZ51oki-xdv5hBibPpZswACLcB/s1600/76c9a138674feb2066e6fcc86d48f1b7.jpg" /></a></div>The only thing I have to hide is my blonde eyelashes, not the actual physical shape of my face. And this is only if you do it RIGHT. Not everyone has mastered the "art" of contouring...<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MuL-he5QRAE/V_CszWsHjXI/AAAAAAAADGk/lpw8-DB8dZIlhzDRLnEDW_61ptet3zEwwCLcB/s1600/landscape-1458043704-amy-schumer-makeup-fail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-MuL-he5QRAE/V_CszWsHjXI/AAAAAAAADGk/lpw8-DB8dZIlhzDRLnEDW_61ptet3zEwwCLcB/s320/landscape-1458043704-amy-schumer-makeup-fail.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />So basically just because something is a "trend" doesn't mean you should start doing it, or else you might end up looking like a sweaty, blue-lipped clown. I hear guys are really into that.<br /><br /><br />Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-70458336516540302902016-07-22T01:45:00.000-07:002016-07-22T01:45:31.268-07:00CROSS FIT FOR COUCH POTATOESIn life, there are three ways something can go down - worse than you thought, better than you thought, or exactly as you thought. Strangely enough, my experience with the ubiquitous exercise trend CrossFit fell into the middle category.<br /><br />As evidenced in previous blog entries, I don't always make fantastic life decisions. So when a friend of mine who works in Irvine (Orange County, for all you non-Californians) said she was going to try a class down there, I startlingly said "I SHOULD COME WITH YOU." I'm not sure if it was the fact that my only human contact in the past two weeks has been via phone/internet and whoever I might be forced to talk to in a public library or if I was simply still under the influence of my Ritalin I'd taken that morning, but I made the executive decision to drive to OC and go to my first CrossFit class as a sedentary blob.<br /><br />A friend noted that you'll know someone goes to CrossFit because they'll tell you, which is true - and it's where I learned everything I knew about it. I combined all the stories from anyone I'd ever heard talk about it and imagined maybe the scariest thing in the history of exercise.<br /><br />Here's how I imagined it going down:<br /><br />Me: *walks into gym*<br /><br />Trainer: "Hi, welcome to Crossfit, is this your first time?"<br /><br />M: "Yes."<br /><br />T: "Great, well sign this giant waiver that you don't have time to read through, put your stuff down over there and head into the gym!"<br /><br />M: Ok *signs life away and walks into gym area*<br /><br />**the gym is full of weights no lighter than 50lbs, stacks of car tires, ropes, lots of metal things that will poke you if you walk into them, large sweaty men grunting, and me, who is half the size of the smallest person in the room**<br /><br />T: "Okay, since this is your first time, let me tell you what you're going to be doing.&nbsp; First, you're going to pick up one of those car tires and run to the other side of the gym, where you will attempt to ring toss it onto a pole. You have to keep trying until you get it on the pole.&nbsp; I suppose since you're new, we'll let you use a Hyundai tire instead of the regular SUV ones, but just this once.<br /><br />After you finish the tire toss, you'll come back inside and pick up these 50lb rocks and move them from one side of the gym to the other for 5 minutes.&nbsp; When time's up, you put down the rock, strap on the weighted vest, and go open that large 50-gallon drum. Inside that drum will be a bear.&nbsp; Since it's your first day, we'll let you use the semi-tranquillized bear, but as you can see, veterans like Chaz and Vinny will get a fully awake bear.&nbsp; Fight that bear until one of you dies. Since you're at CrossFit and we take things seriously here, you better not be the one who dies.<br /><br />Finally, after you kill the bear, you'll climb that rope up to the second story of the parking garage, where you will find three cars. First timers get to use the Beetle, but everyone else has to use the F150. You will push that Beetle up the garage to the third floor, then sprint down as fast as you can back to the gym.&nbsp; The first person who makes it back will get a reward of a Paleo kale and banana wrap, and everyone else is a loser and will be deprived of water for the remainder of the session. <br /><br />Ready?&nbsp; GO!"<br /><br />As I am currently typing this, it's clear that the above scenario did not occur. What actually happened was I took a lovely 2-hour drive to Irvine (for the record that is 60 miles...so that's NOT a good drive time) and met my friend at her hotel. She picked me up and we drove to an office park about 3 miles away to find our randomly located CrossFit gym.<br /><br />When we go inside, we can see into the gym area, and there are one or two people lifting weights in a non-threatening manner (if you can count the amount of weight they were lifting as non-threatening). A nice young man walks into the "lobby" and starts to talk to us about our fitness levels, etc.<br /><br />"Have either of you done CrossFit before?"<br /><br />My friend answered "I have, about 5 years ago I did it for three months." I look down at my Hello Kitty socks before telling him that no, I have not done CrossFit, and not only that, but since my ankle injury last September, I have done very little of anything at all and have the aerobic fitness of a 45-year-old World of Warcraft enthusiast.<br /><br />When it's finally time to start, we go into the gym and are met by a surprisingly pleasant British man with a manbun&nbsp;who seems perfectly happy to take us slowly through squat snatches. Or snatch squats. Fuck if I know, I just wanted to giggle every time he said snatch...then I wondered if snatch was even a euphemism in Britain or if it literally only meant "to snatch."&nbsp;He also told us he was in his 40s, so half the time I was preoccupied by his completely wrinkle-less face and wanted to ask him if he too used Korean skin products, but there never seemed to be an appropriate time to discuss our potentially similar skincare routines.<br /><br />He started &nbsp;by showing us what he referred to as a squat, but what any normal person would refer to as "baseball catcher's position." I wanted to interrupt - "Excuse me, kind sir, but I'm afraid my knees are actually incapable of doing that. You see, I'm over 30, so..." But no, I just did it, wondering if I would simply fall backwards (yes, once) or actually be able to right myself without using my hands (this did eventually happen).<br /><br />So for 45 minutes we did snatch squats, first using a pvc pipe, then a 15lb metal bar, and always using too many leg muscles. We finished with burpees, which are the devil incarnate, and I barely made it off the floor for the last one, but once I realized we were done, I was like WHOA, I just did CrossFit without passing out (that's a legit thing that happens to me, it's kinda my thing).<br /><br />Today I hurt, stairs are hard, and randomly my muscles give out and I wobble oddly trying to stay standing - but I also know that tomorrow is going to be worse, because it's always the second day where I'm only capable of crawling to the bathroom and raising my arms to brush my teeth is maybe the hardest thing in the entire world. But you know what? It wasn't too bad. I'd do it again. I'd prefer not to drive two hours beforehand, but we all have dreams.Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-66277210814719001182016-06-25T03:27:00.001-07:002016-06-25T03:27:33.207-07:0050s DATING ADVICE FOR MEBrought to you in part by <a href="http://www.mydomaine.com/1950s-dating-advice/slide17" target="_blank">this lovely article.</a><br /><br /><strong>1. "Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours."</strong><br /><br />Oh, whoopsie. I suppose you're right, I should really shut up about the fact that I'm pretty sure I broke my ankle on the way into the living room while my important man tells me about the NFL draft. No honey, keep talking, I always get pale and lightheaded when I'm interested. Let me know when you're done, so that maybe after I serve you this delicious home-cooked meal you might have enough energy after your big, manly day at work to take me to the ER while I slowly lose consciousness from pain. If not, no worries, I'm pretty sure all 50s housewives spent many a night sobbing on the living room floor.<br /><br /><strong>2. "Only floozies ask guys out."</strong><br /><br />If I had a dollar for every time a guy called me a floozie... Happens all the time, really. <br />"Hey, do you want to get a drink?" <br />"No, you ridiculous floozie!"<br /><br />"I was wondering if maybe you'd go to prom with me?"<br />"I was wondering when you'd stop being a FUCKING FLOOZY JESUS CHRIST."<br /><br />And all this time I was thinking it was social anxiety and fear of rejection. What a silly floozie I was!!<br /><br /><strong>3. "Don't sit in awkward positions - and never look bored. Be alert, and if you must chew gum (not advised) do so silently and with your mouth closed."</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />You mean like this?&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Or this?&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-idwjdUvJENo/V25VBMpcQMI/AAAAAAAADAk/sEoOLeBTO5oK8L2qfKVoP1AYVqSVMjl2wCLcB/s1600/13482_688878370594_7500779666671793688_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-idwjdUvJENo/V25VBMpcQMI/AAAAAAAADAk/sEoOLeBTO5oK8L2qfKVoP1AYVqSVMjl2wCLcB/s200/13482_688878370594_7500779666671793688_n.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>&nbsp;<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w8Xz-dqmqY8/V25VFjQIMjI/AAAAAAAADAs/hfOEBwilY9Iajtzp_9jwOQzQietLfOSlQCLcB/s1600/1553053_10100131770367951_888625612003026215_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w8Xz-dqmqY8/V25VFjQIMjI/AAAAAAAADAs/hfOEBwilY9Iajtzp_9jwOQzQietLfOSlQCLcB/s200/1553053_10100131770367951_888625612003026215_o.jpg" width="134" /></a><br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tnf0i8tNEOM/V25VIjpoasI/AAAAAAAADA0/CDqGkK8nHcsOdSbRVpQX4x5mNUq_stxtwCLcB/s1600/10176945_10100526154833479_1831772327_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tnf0i8tNEOM/V25VIjpoasI/AAAAAAAADA0/CDqGkK8nHcsOdSbRVpQX4x5mNUq_stxtwCLcB/s200/10176945_10100526154833479_1831772327_o.jpg" width="200" /></a><br /><br />So this isn't okay?&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Or this? I don't look bored, do I?<br /><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QJ8s8xzOu5U/V25VN__6C0I/AAAAAAAADA8/TUSSSL24TKUqGxYxDyAMmJFXF-JVvI-XACLcB/s1600/10603566_10100359328883842_8030842647076351903_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QJ8s8xzOu5U/V25VN__6C0I/AAAAAAAADA8/TUSSSL24TKUqGxYxDyAMmJFXF-JVvI-XACLcB/s200/10603566_10100359328883842_8030842647076351903_n.jpg" width="200" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Soooo...no on this too?<br /><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ltHBAzLw7h8/V25Vdt5873I/AAAAAAAADBE/fgrNL7G0l5QwDDMvlnaflGjPPKDyf-1KgCLcB/s1600/301311_10100242017197579_1240169808_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ltHBAzLw7h8/V25Vdt5873I/AAAAAAAADBE/fgrNL7G0l5QwDDMvlnaflGjPPKDyf-1KgCLcB/s320/301311_10100242017197579_1240169808_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong>4. "The man always does the ordering. Never ask the waiter yourself for anything."</strong><br /><br />"I will have the T-bone, medium rare, and my date will have the small house salad."<br />"Um, excuse me, could I get a chicken sandwich instead?"<br />"WHO THE FUCK SAID YOU COULD TALK TO THE WAITER? ARE YOU HITTING ON HIM? EAT YOUR DRY LEAVES, BITCH."<br />*me, picking at croutons and slowly losing blood sugar as I pass out and fall out of my chair, a single tear drips down my cheek*<br /><br /><strong>4. "Compliment him on his physical prowess, his mental acumen, his good looks, his virility. The worst mistake a girl can make is to make a man feel intellectually inferior or inadequate as a male."</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />Is there a sidenote on how to deal with men who don't understand what "acumen" is? Do I REALLY have to tolerate improper uses of "your" and "you're" for the entirety of my marriage? That's kind of a dealbreaker.&nbsp; What if he tells me Poland is a city in France?&nbsp; Or a koala is a bear (THEY'RE NOT GODDAMN IT)?&nbsp; Or "it's okay, murder is legal here"?&nbsp; I JUST LOOK THE OTHER WAY TO AVOID INSULTING HIS INTELLIGENCE?&nbsp; How about "you're perfectly adequate as a male specimen, but you're just stupid as fuck"?<br /><br /><strong>5. "it is up to you to earn the proposal, by raising a dignified campaign designated to show him that matrimony is the keystone&nbsp;of a happy life."</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />A marriage campaign? How does one do this? Yard signs? Bumper stickers? Internet memes? I personally would be prone to scholarly research and a well-written paper on the pros of marriage, but is this an acceptable format?&nbsp; Would he prefer it in a simple grade school poster flow-chart? <br /><br />Can I appoint delegates? Do I get a committee? I NEED INSTRUCTIONS DAMMIT! Otherwise I'll just be posting "ME FOR WIFE 2016" flyers around the house, which I'm not sure would be entirely effective.<br />Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-43564952631956941892016-04-20T22:02:00.000-07:002016-04-20T22:02:11.598-07:00IF YOU'RE SINGLE AND YOU KNOW IT, PUKE ON A PLANESo I had a super fun weekend, you guys. To be fair, it was fun until about 10pm Sunday night, so that's like 99% fun.<br /><br />I had traveled the great distance LA to Houston to meet a bazillion friends for an annual tradition known as "Masseypaloooza." Though usually held in Malibu or Hermosa Beach, this year was a tiny town called Round Top, Texas because my friend is basically the mayor and can do whatever the fuck he wants.&nbsp; It was a lovely weekend spent with people I don't see more than once or twice a year, sitting in a ridiculously ironic "redneck hottub" (pickup truck bed filled with water) and a slip n slide made from 50 feet of black plastic that someone was able to find on Amazon. <br /><br />Oh, and also we ate. A LOT. I can't really express this in terms most people understand, but for those of you who know me, I basically ate like I do at an Indian buffet - FOR EVERY MEAL FOR THREE DAYS. It was Texas, so I was filled with beef, cheese and pie to the point where my stomach was taut like it was carrying a baby and not just future poop.<br /><br />But as you might've guessed, the real story lies in the return home. A friend and I were on the same Southwest flight home late Sunday night, the last of the friends to leave. Our flight was delayed half an hour so we went and had some nachos, finishing in time to board with our beautiful A59 and A60 boarding passes.<br /><br />I started the flight off reading my new book about a murder, because duh, and eventually I got tired. As I turned off the light and put the book in the seat pocket, I started to feel not so great. Not terrible, but uncomfortable. <br /><br />This ramped up slowly.<br /><br />Ugh, I wish I hadn't eaten those nachos.<br /><br />Ok, I really wish I hadn't eaten 50% of the food I ate this weekend. Except the pie, I do not regret that.<br /><br />Hmm, maybe I should wake up this weird middle seat guy who smells like hot garbage, which isn't helping my situation, and get out to go to the bathroom. Just in case.<br /><br />I get to the bathroom, luckily unoccupied, and try to think. Was this going to be a Hawaii situation? Did I need more than one receptacle for what was about to escape my angry stomach?<br /><br />At this point we were about 2 hours into an almost four-hour flight. I decided this would be a good time to begin vomiting. There were a couple of fake outs, where you finish and you think you feel all better and can continue to live your life as you once did, but then return to your seat and smell Mr. Hot Garbage and realize NOPE NOT DONE YET.<br /><br />The friendly flight attendants quickly figured out that I wasn't in the bathroom doing lines, and kept me supplied with water as I simply gave up on going back to my seat and started hanging out in the back of the plane with them. It didn't get better. It got worse. I started getting dehydrated and being unable to stand up. They kindly found me a seat in the back row, but I was past that point now.<br /><br />"I know this isn't really acceptable safety protocol and stuff, but can I just lay on the floor? Like right here? Literally next to your feet and the bathroom and the place you make drinks?"<br /><br />"Sure, honey." Goddamn they were the best flight attendants.<br /><br />So I sprawled out on the floor of the back of the airplane, as I'm sure many of you have done before, smelling of my own puke and shame, and all I could think of was "please please please don't shit your pants this time."<br /><br />I would like to take this short moment to tell you about a gift my friend got me.&nbsp; My best friend lives in Singapore, and she recently went to Vietnam for vacation where things are cheap and amazing. She saw a shirt that was perfect for me, bought it for like $2 or something, and brought it to Houston for me. It hilariously said "If you're single and you know it hug your cat."<br /><br />I was wearing that shirt. I was wearing a puke-splattered "if you're single and you know it hug your cat" shirt while laying on the floor of an airplane galley in front of two flight attendants and an entire plane full of passengers (just wait).<br /><br />When it was clear that I was not going to be exiting the plane without some assistance, the flight attendants had the pilot call for medics to meet me at the gate, and then made my favorite announcement:<br />"Ladies and gentlemen, when we reach the gate if you could please remain in your seats, we have a sick passenger that needs to exit first."<br /><br />I got to do other things you're not supposed to do, like be in the bathroom while the plane lands. Didn't fully appreciate my freedom at the time. I laid back down on the floor of the plane as we taxied, because I had no more fucks to give. <br /><br />Then we arrived at our gate, where the announcement was repeated, and my flight attendant saviors walked a pale, sick 30-something with dirty hair and a "hug your cat" t-shirt past every single passenger on the plane. The best part was that the guys who were maneuvering the jetway kept fucking up, and in the time we were waiting to open the door, with all eyes on me, I had one glorious final puke in the front bathroom because FOR THE LOVE OF GOD GET ME OFF THIS FUCKING PLANE.<br /><br />My new best friends, the LAFD medics, were waiting for me and wheeled me out to the terminal that was now empty as it was past midnight. I'm pretty sure I was given an IV in the airport, shortly after begging the attractive EMTs to let me lay on the airport floor because I mean, I'd already been on the floor of the airplane galley, and it doesn't get much worse. I remember them being vaguely concerned about me laying on the floor. NOTHING ON THIS FLOOR CAN MAKE ME WORSE THAN I AM RIGHT NOW OKAY?<br /><br />Their fear materialized into a stretcher that I was buckled into like a mental patient and wheeled into a service elevator to the waiting ambulance that, as expected, was the temperature of a morgue. I started shivering like I was having a seizure. Have you ever shivered with your butt? MY BUTT SHIVERED. And it was freakin sore the next day too. It was like the only muscle in&nbsp; my body still working and capable of shivering. I'm sure it looked quite odd coming from a girl buckled into a stretcher and covered with sheets<br /><br />The ambulance drove me somewhere - I didn't even know what hospital I was at until about 7am the next day when they let me out. Apparently there's a hospital in Marina Del Rey, FYI. <br /><br />They gave me fluids, anti-nausea meds, something else I wasn't paying attention to, and I tried to sleep. They took gallons of my blood and disappeared for hours. Finally, after 6 hours in the ER, they had figured out that I wasn't dying and they couldn't really do anything more for me, so I got an Uber back to my apartment where I could slowly die alone in my own very comfortable bed.<br /><br />The only thing of note that happened the rest of Monday was a random fever that night that induced the craziest night terrors ever, including a superfun bout of sleep paralysis where I was half dreaming I was about to be stabbed in bed but I could do nothing but lay there and watch. I might have welcomed that scenario 10 hours earlier.<br /><br />When the fever broke, the dreams stopped, I woke up, and suddenly knew that it was over. Well, unless you count the insane bloating from being dehydrated.<br /><br />But the good news...I didn't shit my pants this time.Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-34776754502317294032016-03-16T22:29:00.003-07:002016-03-16T22:29:49.514-07:00THAT TIME I GAVE A CELEBRITY MY NUMBERI make exceptional life decisions. I'm sure you could go back many blog entries ago and read numerous descriptions of said life decisions, or you could simply scroll down to the photo at the beginning of my last blog on Oscar fashion. That, folks, is who you're dealing with.<br /><br />I look fantastic - on paper. I have three degrees, am a licensed attorney in two (hopefully three soon) states, speak 2.15 languages (that's the number I came up with when I added my basic conversational French with minimal Spanish and Korean), have won 9 out of 11 jury trials, am reasonably funny, can hold an intelligent conversation and also enjoy a good fart joke. I'm even above-average in looks, at least I think so. Let me just believe I'm hot, okay?<br /><br />Me in person, that's a whole other story. I'm an introvert that has finally reached the "I don't give a fuck" part of my life, which is confusing for me because I always gave so many fucks. I cared what people thought of my hair, my face, my clothes, my personality, my intelligence, everything. Now I really don't, but it comes across differently than an extrovert with social skills. I still get uncomfortable around new people and generally my go-to is try to be funny and fail, jokingly insult someone and have them think I meant it, or laughing at everyone else while I think of how to join the conversation. I'm really good at socializing, you guys.<br /><br />One thing I'm particularly not good at - interacting with attractive males. If you've ever witnessed it, it's sad. It's probably amusing. It might make you cringe but giggle a little at the same time and walk away feeling confusingly uncomfortable. That's how it makes me feel, anyway.<br /><br />I have NEVER in my entire life gone up to a guy in person and given him my number. Never. Not even when I was in law school and drank four days a week. It has simply never happened.<br /><br />So when you've gone 34 years of your life never approaching a guy to give him your number, what do you do about that? Well you make your first victim a celebrity, duh.<br /><br />I'd made plans to visit my parents in Missouri for my grandma's 96th birthday at the beginning of March a couple of weeks before I went. I'd be gone all weekend and return on Monday. My tickets were $87. It was amazing. So imagine my intense heartache and disappointment when I go to improv on Tuesday before I leave and find out that Matt McGorry (google him now if you don't already know who he is. I'll wait) was going to be the guest in my teacher's show on Sunday. The Sunday I'd be GONE.<br /><br />I died a little inside. I may have posted some "woe is me" comments on&nbsp;my teacher's facebook page. I was a sad little girl.<br /><br />I went to Missouri, we fed my grandma cake, I slept a lot, the show happened without me there, I flew back to LA. <br /><br />Now it's important to understand the difference between Mr. McGorry and say, Hugh Dancy. Or Bradley Cooper. Hugh and Bradley are 9000% out of my reach. Hugh is married to Claire Danes, who I consider somewhat mannish but whatever, and Bradley dates models and not attorneys who drive Honda Civics. That's why it's totally okay for me to have a picture of Hugh Dancy as my phone background, because we're never going to meet so I can be as creepy as I want.<br /><br />Matt McGorry, however, seems like a normal guy. Not only is he insanely hot, but he's age appropriate and not super duper famous yet. And he posts videos on his instagram (NOT A STALKER YOU GUYS, I FOLLOW LOTS OF PEOPLE) and he's actually hilarious, unlike his characters. He seems like he'd be someone I'd get along with well - we have the same political ideas, the same type of sense of humor, he says "fuck" a lot, seems to be intelligent and educated, etc. Really what I'm looking for in any guy.<br /><br />When I return to class, one of my friends tells me she met him and that he was super nice and really down to earth. She didn't proposition him because she's engaged and not a creepster, but still got a good impression of&nbsp;him.&nbsp;I was sad for about twelve more seconds until someone walks in and puts a flyer on the wall of our classroom that had his really hot face on it and said he was coming BACK this week to be a guest in ANOTHER Second City show.<br /><br />Well, this was obviously destiny. The stars aligned, Mercury was in retrograde (what the fuck does that even MEAN?), Jesus and&nbsp;Vishnu held hands and danced around a cauldron of glitter, all so I could meet&nbsp;Matt McGorry.&nbsp;I mean, of course. I didn't get to meet him so he comes to Second City two weeks in a row, giving me a chance? Naw, that's some movie shit, that doesn't happen. He was going to get to meet my awesome self and decide that hey, maybe he wants to date a hot attorney who happens to do improv in her spare time and is not a gold digger. Time for me to organize my Pinterest wedding board, aww shit.<br /><br />I bought a ticket immediately upon finishing class and began preparing for what the sparkly rose-smelling goddess of love had decided was going to be "my moment." I had to be PREPARED. <br /><br />To me, preparation meant looking hot, having my number readily available so he couldn't refuse it, and pumping myself up enough to speak to an attractive person who also happened to be on two very big TV shows. No big deal.&nbsp;As any reasonable person would do, I Snapchatted my friends across the world (yes, literally) asking hair up or down, glasses or no glasses. All the answers varied so I settled with hair down and glasses, because he seems like he'd like smart chicks - and we all know glasses don't mean "my vision genes are defective" but rather "I like reading books in Latin."<br /><br />I even thought "What if I ask if I can buy him a drink? What if I ask him to get a drink RIGHT THEN? What if he ACCEPTS? I only have $4! I can't tell someone I'll buy them a drink and only have $4, therefore making them buy said drink!" So, since this was on Sunday and I got paid Monday, I took one of my old purses to Crossroads, that store where you sell your old clothes, and walked out with $9.64. I had to use my $4 for parking for the show, so I hoped to god that he would order a Bud Light and I could pony up the cash like the baller I was pretending to be.<br /><br />I got to Second City early, watched a class show, wandered aimlessly around for thirty minutes, during which time I stole a business card from the office and, with a Sharpie (visibility, you guys), wrote my name and phone number on the back. I tucked that sucker into my purse and waited for my moment.<br /><br />I was walking down the stairs to go chat with the door guy when Matt turns the corner and starts UP the stairs. HOLY SHIT I'M NOT READY YET, WE CAN'T MEET YET, THIS IS NOT HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN. STOP BEING THERE, GO BACK! He was texting, so I managed to slip by him unnoticed and got a giant wave of anxiety that I can only assume is similar to how you feel after you take a hit of meth. <br /><br />So in my meth-like state, I watched the show, not really paying attention, and rehearsed what I should say. I knew I couldn't get my full life story out in a few sentences, so I just decided to introduce myself and tell him I was in the class of one of the ladies he improvised with last week. <br /><br />After the show a ton of girls were lining up to take pictures with him. I decided to be cool and stand by the door, because I didn't want to be lumped in with the chicks that just thought of him as a commodity to be shared and bragged about on Instagram. I wanted to be COOL. A person, not a fan. I waited a good 20 minutes before all the fangirls got done with him, feeling cooler and cooler as I stood there pretending not to be phased by this incredibly hot celebrity that was 5 feet away from me.<br /><br />Then he turned towards me and started walking to the door. This was my moment. Now or never. I touched his arm to get his attention (so nervously that I didn't even fully appreciate that I was touching a REALLY NICE ARM) and he looked at me and stopped. Then this happened.<br /><br />"HI I'M IN NANCY'S CLASS YOU KNOW FROM MAMA'S BOY THAT THING YOU DID LAST WEEK YEAH I DIDN'T GET TO SEE IT BUT I HEARD YOU WERE GOOD UM YEAH SO I UH ****honestly no idea what I said here**** YEAH YOU PROBABLY GET THIS A LOT" - pull out card with my name and number on it - "BUT UH HERE'S MY NUMBER SO UH YEAH IF YOU DON'T WANT TO USE IT JUST DON'T TALK ABOUT HOW A RANDOM CHICK GAVE YOU HER NUMBER ON A TALK&nbsp;SHOW OR SOMETHING HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA NO REALLY DON'T OK I'M GONNA GO NICE TO MEET YOU BYE"<br /><br />*I run down stairs*<br /><br />Then came the regret. OH SHIT what did I just do? What came out of my mouth? It wasn't MY fault, he was staring INTO MY SOUL. Seriously he looks you straight in the eye when you talk to him and I turned to stone and was unable to control what came out of my mouth. I had so much adrenaline going that I stood and talked to the guy working the door (I know him, so it wasn't weird and random) for 20 minutes pretty much flipping out and really wanting a Klonopin. <br /><br />And no, I haven't heard from him, if you were curious what type of first impression I made.Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-64789916573500461502016-03-04T21:53:00.000-08:002016-03-04T21:53:21.985-08:00THIS IDIOT RATES OSCAR FASHIONSYes, THIS IDIOT<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_NrDLjdBk64/VtpiVTI6HNI/AAAAAAAAC6M/6-VanoEn4Y0/s1600/2e13a01dd21ce26c701283be73f933e9%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_NrDLjdBk64/VtpiVTI6HNI/AAAAAAAAC6M/6-VanoEn4Y0/s320/2e13a01dd21ce26c701283be73f933e9%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>In this wedding photobooth (the red carpet of the real world) picture, I'm sporting a thrifty plastic safari hat, unidentified magenta tutu-esque piece of fabric, and a completely clashing bright red dress and lipstick. I was 80% sober here, which means I had entirely too many mental and physical faculties for this to be acceptable.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BPYkub3EKU4/Vtpj0VGT_II/AAAAAAAAC6Y/4ui4mzOkTz0/s1600/022816-oscars-kate-winslet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BPYkub3EKU4/Vtpj0VGT_II/AAAAAAAAC6Y/4ui4mzOkTz0/s400/022816-oscars-kate-winslet.jpg" width="197" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Go back in time with me, if you will, to 1987. It's Halloween. Your parents don't want to spend a ton of money on a costume. They realize, brilliantly, that a giant black Hefty bag doubles as a California Raisin costume, which was a pretty hip thing to be that year. You cut leg holes and arm holes in your garbage bag, tie it at the neck, and voila, you're a California Raisin!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I assume this is the homage Kate Winslet is going for here.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6MLT0zaDwKc/VtplRu860XI/AAAAAAAAC6k/jPQIVn-X5jo/s1600/022816-oscars-alicia-vikander.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6MLT0zaDwKc/VtplRu860XI/AAAAAAAAC6k/jPQIVn-X5jo/s400/022816-oscars-alicia-vikander.jpg" width="203" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Alright, Alicia Vikander. I have no idea who you are. I don't get to see too many movies since my friends with Oscar screeners have *AHEM* moved to Asia. Either way your dress is trying very hard. I like the light yellow, because bright yellow is harsh, and the sparklies are not bad. I'm just a little turned off by the fact that it looks like you went to the bathroom and tucked most of your dress into your panties without noticing that there's a slight breeze.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Qzm8IufbynQ/VtpoMVjJ3PI/AAAAAAAAC64/SAzhGeGjvyI/s1600/prom98.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Qzm8IufbynQ/VtpoMVjJ3PI/AAAAAAAAC64/SAzhGeGjvyI/s400/prom98.jpg" width="225" /></a><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YPvWTTAL9Gw/VtpnCsbcjaI/AAAAAAAAC6w/YMYhgmuvm2E/s1600/022816-oscars-saoirse-ronan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YPvWTTAL9Gw/VtpnCsbcjaI/AAAAAAAAC6w/YMYhgmuvm2E/s400/022816-oscars-saoirse-ronan.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This chick had a really weird name that I have already forgotten in the time it took to find the photo of me wearing a similar (yet slightly more modest neckline) dress to prom in 1998. I was so ahead of my time.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-md8sZq9hjW0/VtppqC7PmpI/AAAAAAAAC7E/fDLMLFroBvg/s1600/022816-oscars-amy-poehler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-md8sZq9hjW0/VtppqC7PmpI/AAAAAAAAC7E/fDLMLFroBvg/s400/022816-oscars-amy-poehler.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Oh Amy. You are so funny. I'm not entirely sure where you found this costume, but suffice it to say you must be busy writing, acting and performing your duties as the official royal fortune teller at the imperial palace during the Qing Dynasty.&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dpNUMVdZywo/Vtpq4_6F-CI/AAAAAAAAC7Q/aoI6iGGO9i8/s1600/022816-oscars-the-weeknd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-dpNUMVdZywo/Vtpq4_6F-CI/AAAAAAAAC7Q/aoI6iGGO9i8/s400/022816-oscars-the-weeknd.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Ok, Mr. Weeknd, let's have a little chat. Not about your tux,&nbsp; you look fine. Well, except your hair. Whatever you did, please don't ever do it again. We need to have a chat about your name. First of all, you're ONE GUY. You can't have a "the" in your name if you're ONE GUY, unless you're THE president or THE Queen of England. That's just the way shit works. Even Beyoncé isn't THE BEYONCE, and we all know she's the baseline against whom all entertainers measure themselves. Sure, if you want to be all cutesy and spell "weekend" wrong, whatever. But to me, you're just "Weeknd." Always. Forever. No "the." Step down off that tall horse of yours and sit down on that small goat that is your career.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zjaDiwjjUcc/VtptAb39BRI/AAAAAAAAC7c/j-j3o4aVDc8/s1600/022816-oscars-pharell-williams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zjaDiwjjUcc/VtptAb39BRI/AAAAAAAAC7c/j-j3o4aVDc8/s400/022816-oscars-pharell-williams.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Aww, it was so nice of Pharrell's wife to bring Little Timmy to his first Oscars. I hope you packed some snacks in that tiny purse of yours because Timmy's already looking mischievous. And make sure he stays in his seat, kids do the darndest things!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zNaoQtqtOwU/Vtpu6PH61wI/AAAAAAAAC7o/qC9sKpE3RCU/s1600/022816-oscars-rooney-mara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zNaoQtqtOwU/Vtpu6PH61wI/AAAAAAAAC7o/qC9sKpE3RCU/s400/022816-oscars-rooney-mara.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Rooney Mara, you are pale. It's okay, I too am pale. But we've gotta work with what we're given. Of all the rainbow of colors in the world, you chose to wear the same color as both your skin and the background. LITERALLY ANY COLOR WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER. And I might even forgive the fact that the material looks like Lizzie Borden's bedspread if I could tell where it ended and your skin began. And don't get me started on gratuitous cut-outs. I kind of wish your dress was fur so that PETA could have livened it up a bit with some bright paint splashes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SKxu-bo6cQk/VtpwmqtdpjI/AAAAAAAAC70/-srYr7wNs0E/s1600/022816-oscars-kerry-washington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SKxu-bo6cQk/VtpwmqtdpjI/AAAAAAAAC70/-srYr7wNs0E/s320/022816-oscars-kerry-washington.jpg" width="160" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Kerry Washington, you are beautiful and your skin is like flawless silk. You don't look bad in anything. You really even don't look bad in this, but that's not saying anything for the dress itself. I can't tell if it's a vague homage to Star Wars or Xena the Warrior Princess, but I'm confused and upset. Being Kerry Washington's stylist isn't an invitation to throw anything on her to see if she can make it not look ridiculous, that's just rude. Dress her like the goddess she is.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n3O1AaopSFo/Vtpy25d7taI/AAAAAAAAC8A/tlxFliTJsAg/s1600/022816-oscars-heidi-klum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n3O1AaopSFo/Vtpy25d7taI/AAAAAAAAC8A/tlxFliTJsAg/s400/022816-oscars-heidi-klum.jpg" width="197" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I call my latest modern art piece "Unicorn Vomit Frozen in Time Avec Les Fleurs"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><br />Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-78737890490094888072016-03-01T01:33:00.000-08:002016-03-01T01:33:17.108-08:00A LINK TO THE PASTThumbs up if you get the super nerdy title reference.<br /><br />Now that my second iteration of the bar is over, I can come back to other things, such as writing about what rich people wore to an awards ceremony I didn't watch. Trust me, I've already reviewed my material and there's a good deal I have to say, but that will&nbsp;be later in the week. But first, my return to WORK.<br /><br />In the fantasy world that I call my job, which I've only had for about two months, I have two "bosses" who are super fun and nice, close to my age, and like listening to KDAY at work.&nbsp;AND they think I'm smart and useful and have good ideas. I'm still looking for the hidden unicorn in the office to prove to me that this is all a dream and there's no way I could have a job I enjoy with people I like who ALSO appreciate me and tell me so. That kind of job doesn't exist. It's the same kind of job that where, when I'd been there a week and turned in one Summary Judgment Opposition, they decided to show me they liked my work and that they intended to keep me around by buying me a gigantic monitor so I didn't have to look at my laptop screen all day.<br /><br />It's also the kind of job where they're like, "Oh, yeah, don't come in the week before the bar, we really want you to study." I didn't even ASK for time off, but OKAY. And I appreciated it greatly. So today when I came to the office for the first time in two weeks, the guy at the front desk told me they'd moved offices (they'd been trying to get a bigger one since they hired me and the one they had barely fit two small children, let alone three adults with desks). He walked me to a (comparatively) huge office with SO MUCH SPACE and I had a BIG GIANT DESK and could back my chair up without hitting the open door. Okay, I guess that's not like the corner office at the Empire State Building but having a mini-desk behind the door makes you appreciate the small things. Or bigger things.<br /><br />They were excited to have me back (what? they noticed I was gone?) and I set up my computer and began working. I don't mind being there. It's super weird. They're also terrifyingly confident in my ability to pass the bar this time. It actually does scare me...<br /><br />When I got home today I opened up my "work box" to find things to take to my big girl desk at my big girl job, since it's SO HUGE that I need to decorate it or the only things that will adorn my desk are food particles and empty Starbucks cups. My work box is exactly how I left it 6 years ago, when I packed up my desk at the DA's office in Missouri, never to return.<br /><br />The first thing I saw upon opening the box was a large desk calendar for 2010. January was filled with dockets, hearings, my final (winning!) trial, and highlighter cross-outs for every day that passed up until January 15th. That was the day that my boss came into my already-closed office and sat down, an almost sad look on his face, where he told me that he thought I was a wonderful person, but not necessarily the type of person that needed to do this job. I surprised him when I straight up agreed with him. I had been looking for jobs (at home) for the past month or so, with no success. I'd begun isolating myself at this job too, just like the last one. My office was on the opposite side of the space from the others, which didn't really bother me, but even that shelter hadn't been enough in past months. My door remained closed and I was avoiding everyone again.<br /><br />That was when I decided to leave law. I'd made the decision before, but that was the day it took effect. I cried, not because I was sad, but because I was relieved. That, and I pretty much cried about everything between 2008 and 2013. <br /><br />Today, despite having started my job in January, I felt was my real return to law. After six years of confusion, school, unsuccessful job hunting, "finding myself," a master's degree, undiagnosed PTSD, living across the world for two months and finally DIAGNOSED PTSD (the difference is staggering, I assure you), I opened the box and took some items from my past to put back into my present. Just a few, but enough. There's a part of me that will always be a DA. That part of me saw hearings scheduled into April in that calendar that&nbsp;was never used, hearings for cases I remember and ultimately worry about the outcome. I hope the more difficult ones weren't dismissed because people didn't believe in the sex crimes cases like I did. I hope some of those people are still in jail.<br /><br />I credit the last year for getting me back "on track" in life, i.e. having a paying job as well as hobbies and friends, to starting improv. I gained my confidence back. I became happy again. I started making a concerted effort to use the skills I had to do what I knew I was good at so that I could make money to support what I love to do. And today was the beginning of something great.<br /><br />Thank god I still look like I'm 28 because starting over at 34 isn't easy. But I did need those 6 years to get to this point.<br /><br />Okay enough with this gooey sh...show of emotion. Let's do this.Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-81617373166508833672016-02-17T22:51:00.000-08:002016-02-17T22:52:06.900-08:00MY TAKE ON THE BACHELORI've been watching the Bachelor since the beginning of this season. I can't stop. It's like a train wreck. I'd never really watched it before, with the exception a few episodes here and there over the course of the entire tenure of the show, but I had no idea how addicting it could be.<br /><br />I can't decide if I would be terrible on the show or the one the producers keep around because I provide endless entertainment. It's come to my attention that either these girls don't curse, or they just cut all of that out, because there are no bleeps. Who doesn't curse? That's very suspect. I don't trust people who don't curse. But then again, I don't really trust people who go on a TV show to actually legitimately find love. Also I don't have long brown/blonde ombre hair with loose waves that always looks the same, so I'd stand out immediately.<br /><br />(Disclosure: I once may or may not have applied to be on the Bachelor, shortly off a bad breakup and just for amusement. I'm not sure if I was rejected because my job title was "attorney" and not "cosmetologist" or "twin," or some other reason, but I'm pretty sure that what got me on Wipeout was exactly the thing that made the Bachelor not interested. I was kind of relieved when they didn't call me.)<br /><br />Now that I've actually watched most of a season of the show, I know I would be a hilarious disaster. Assuming someone as dull as Ben would&nbsp;keep me around this long, which is highly unlikely as I tend to terrify people who have very little personality, my reactions to these dates and questions would be SIGNIFICANTLY different.<br /><br />In last night's episode, that I watch a day late on Hulu&nbsp;solely&nbsp;to spite Time Warner Cable, Boring Ben takes the remaining ladies to his hometown of Warsaw, Indiana. The girls think it's adorable how much he loves this tiny town, but I find it absolutely terrifying.&nbsp;Sure, the trees are pretty and fall-colored, and I assume it would be a pleasant place to stay for a&nbsp; night on a road trip, but to live there? Sweet mother of god, no.<br /><br />The first "date" he took the girl on a tour of his town, talking about his high school and how he was quarterback, blah blah blah.&nbsp;Oh great, a guy who's still living the high school hometown dream? My absolute nightmare. High school wasn't bad, but for the love of god, grow up and have some adult accomplishments.<br /><br />"And that's my church."<br />"Ohhhhh, yeah, this probably isn't going to work out..."<br /><br />After the tour that showed you how boring your life would be if you moved "home" with Ben after the show, he took the girl to a gym FILLED with children. Like 50 of them.&nbsp;Hold up, I think you made some mistake, we're supposed to be on a date and you've taken me to a fucking day care. I think I'm going to go take a nice walk among the fall trees that I'll never see again since I'm obviously not marrying someone who wants to hang out with a small army of children.<br /><br />"I really loved working here with the kids in the after school program, it made me really love working with children."<br /><br />NOPE. NOPE NOPE NOPE. Not only do I not want to have YOUR kid, I sure as hell don't want to hang out with an entire school full of them for no monetary compensation. I don't even want to do it FOR money, but that's likely the only way to persuade me. Well, maybe for that giant plush donut Ben won at the "town fair" later in the show. I would freakin love a giant plush donut.<br /><br />Also WHY DO ALL THESE PEOPLE KNOW HIM? How can a town be that small?? And how creepy is it that everywhere he takes girls on dates there are at least 20 people he knows that are watching him like a hawk both because a) he's the most "famous" person they've ever seen and b) because they're trying to get on national TV?&nbsp; GO AWAY. YOU'RE CREEPING ME OUT.<br /><br />It's also concerning that most of these girls are under 25. There's a VERY small percentage of my friends who married before 25 that are still married. The Bachelor is basically where relatively attractive, uninteresting people can have a "starter marriage." Also, he's NEVER seen them without PROFESSIONAL hair and makeup. He doesn't even know if they can put on their own makeup without looking like a drag queen. Or maybe they always wear sweatpants. THE WHOLE THING IS A LIE.<br /><br />But I think we all knew that. Except maybe the people on the show. If nothing else, they're all equally boring, so neither Ben nor his first wife will be disappointed in their (lack of) conversation. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go read my Winston Churchill biography so I can gain back all the brain cells I just lost.Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-38499834317195308552016-01-17T23:28:00.000-08:002016-01-17T23:28:18.094-08:00AND THE KITTENS WERE GONE!Don't worry, nothing actually happened to any kittens, that's just what my friends would say when I started telling a story and got off-topic and rambled for 45 minutes. It is basically the last line from a story which, if I'm being honest, was one of the LEAST ridiculously long tangents I've gone on while attempting to tell a story.<br /><br />If you've ever attempted to have a conversation with me, you'll know that I lose my train of thought about&nbsp;50 times during the course of any attempt at speaking and generally end up completely forgetting what I was initially talking about. I am in no way concise.&nbsp;When I write, however, I am quite concise. I get to the point and I'm done.<br /><br />I have a confession to make. If you hadn't already figured it out from my complete radio silence following my countdown to the bar exam, I did not pass. However, I was in the majority, since only 46% of people taking the California bar this past July passed. I was actually so shocked that I didn't pass that I entered my registration number into the box FIVE TIMES to make sure I typed it correctly, and was then still somewhat convinced that there was a mistake. That's what I get for being too cocky - the "I've already passed two different bar exams on the first try, this one will be cake" attorney who was convinced that having practiced in real life would make my answers better.<br /><br />Actually, that's what I get for being TOO CONCISE. Those were exactly the words my legal writing teacher (may she rot in hell) wrote on my first memo in law school. What, you're mad that I didn't REPEAT MYSELF UNNECESSARILY?&nbsp; You're mad that I stayed on topic? You wanted me to explain things to you as detailed and dumbed down as one would to a six-year-old?<br /><br />Apparently yes.<br /><br />Let's put this in perspective. I received my answer packet from the bar showing what I wrote (with no notes, thanks for the help guys) and today I compared it to the "good" answer for the same question that they posted on the internet.&nbsp;I got each of the questions RIGHT, and came to the conclusions in the same way as the sample answer, but there was a marked difference:<br /><br />My answer took up four pages. The sample answer took THIRTEEN PAGES.&nbsp; I'm just going to let that sink in here for a second.<br /><br />Basically, it was my answer with every single thing defined.&nbsp;While mine would say something to the effect of "the court correctly denied Bob's motion for summary judgment because blah blah blah," the sample answer was more like "Bob, who was born on&nbsp;a farm in 1914, lived a long, hard life picking weeds from his neighbor's yard...he had type A blood, an unnatural interest in the mating habits of pigs, and saw his first grey hair when he was 20 years old. When Bob filed the motion for summary judgment, he drove there in his 1994 Honda Accord that was purchased via quitclaim deed from his sister, Sue, who inherited it from her father through his holographic will that was also videotaped, notarized, and performed via&nbsp;interpretive dance&nbsp;The judge who denied Bob's motion had just filed for divorce from his wife and was in the 7392 day waiting period between filing and actual dissolution of the marriage, therefore his state of mind was relevant to the proceedings and should be taken into account when the case is brought up on appeal, as well as the fact that the&nbsp;judge's brother just found&nbsp;oil on the judge's property and should the judge or his brother have the rights to the oil if the land used to belong to Barbara Streisand but now the judge is renting it from Charlie&nbsp;Sheen and&nbsp;is violating his lease by having a dog?"<br /><br />Whoa, hold up, I think I'm going to use that answer next time...<br />Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-5766273301122527572015-12-31T01:12:00.000-08:002015-12-31T01:12:18.742-08:00ASPIRING IDIOTSeeing as New Years is, well, right now, I felt the urge to get off my ass theoretically (which requires me to be physically on my ass, since typing standing up is weird) and write some shit.&nbsp; You can't expect to make a dent&nbsp;in "being a writer" if you don't actually write.<br /><br />My recent excuse is that my life is not particularly interesting right now - which is quite true, if you ask me what I did all day.&nbsp; But if I look deeper, I can find the funny.<br /><br />For Christmas I got a Fitbit, which turned many of my close friends and now my mother into raging lunatics who walk in circles in the kitchen&nbsp;so a computer will know they took 10,000 steps a day and send them a congratulatory email or an emoji of a happy donut.&nbsp; I'm hoping that it will turn me into some sort of insane person who moves more than I do, because currently my life pace is that of "sloth," and not the cute kind you see in Facebook videos.<br /><br />I knew it was working when the first day I got it, the Fitbit told me I had walked about 3,000 steps and slept 10.3 hours.&nbsp; At least I knew&nbsp;I didn't have to send it back&nbsp;and now believe in the scientific accuracy of its abilities, since that was exactly what I did on Christmas day.&nbsp; My parents kept asking me why I slept all the time when I was home, but they didn't seem to notice that my room is about as bright as coffin and my bed is as comfy as the dead people make coffins look.<br /><br />One of the myriad problems with being a single female living in a studio apartment with two cats, aside from the obvious ones, is finding someone to look after them when I go out of town. I don't get out much, as one would imagine, so the times I go out of town are exactly the same times others do.&nbsp; Yes, cats are self-sufficient, but I'm more worried about them somehow setting my apartment on fire than dying of starvation while I'm gone.&nbsp; Seriously, it's happened before.<br /><br />This time, I had a friend who wasn't leaving until Christmas Eve, and I was returning on the 26th, so I thought that those twoish days would be no problem for my animals that sleep even more than I do, but I've been wrong before. Like the time I came home and found that Rudy (the fat one) had managed to TURN ON THE GAS STOVE, complete with flame, while I was gone TO WORK for EIGHT HOURS. My apartment was 90 degrees inside in the dead of winter when I arrived home to the "tick tick tick" of the burner lighter that had likely been on nearly the entire day.<br /><br />He has also managed to cause a sequence of events that started with knocking over golf clubs and ended with my lantern being ripped from the ceiling by its cord (during a weekend away) and locking himself IN the room with the litter box while consequently locking the other cat OUT, resulting in an odd-but-explainable cat shit in the bathtub drain.<br /><br />This time, after arriving 45 minutes late to LAX around 1am and watching Charlie Sheen smoke with an airport cop while waiting for my Super Shuttle, I wasn't quite prepared for what awaited me.&nbsp; I walked into my apartment and it looked like someone had sprinkled the entire place with cat litter, like some sort of fucked up fairy dust, my Hello Kitty stuffed animal was across the room from where she belonged, one of the cats (Rudy, no doubt) had taken it upon himself to scrape litter out of the box and onto the floor in front of the box thereupon making a second makeshift litter box on the floor that confused the other cat into using the floor instead of the actual box, and multiple unimportant things were on the floor instead of on counters or shelves where they belonged.<br /><br />This all happened in TWO DAYS.&nbsp; It's like leaving a fucking teenager alone with the liquor cabinet for the weekend. I'm not sure how they punted a large stuffed animal across the room or how the coverage of cat litter was both thorough and evenly distributed across the apartment, but it took me about an hour or vacuuming to feel as though I wasn't living in a zoo cage with monkeys that throw shit at you.&nbsp; And I KNOW if Rudy had opposable thumbs that bastard would throw shit at me and then want to come cuddle.<br /><br />Happy New Year, me.Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-4493376745360358382015-11-09T22:48:00.001-08:002015-11-09T22:48:58.988-08:00THIS ISN'T FUNNY.Tonight I was waiting in the subway station as I do nearly every day when I have to work downtown (yes, I still live in LA, for those of you who are questioning my riding a subway). I like taking the train because it's fast and I can avoid traffic. I hate taking the train because of the people on the train.&nbsp;There are 50 different varieties of homeless people, from the ones that sleep across two seats and smell like piss to the ones that decide to make the captive audience their personal donation fund, walking back and forth spouting the same bullshit about needing change. <br /><br />There are elderly Asian women and teenagers of all races, tourists and locals, people like me who have jobs downtown and people who were just given a Metro card on their way out of the county jail. Despite the cast of characters, I've never once felt like my personal safety was in jeopardy or that I was likely to be robbed. However, there are plenty of people, both crazy and "normal," who try to talk to me.&nbsp;I don't like this. Usually I put my headphones in with the cord attached to nothing inside my purse just so it looks like I'm listening to something so people won't talk to me.<br /><br />I left my headphones at work today. It was a deliberate decision, not an accident - I thought "why roll them up and put them back in my purse when I won't use them until I am at work again tomorrow?" This was a bad decision.<br /><br />It was 8:30pm and the metro station wasn't full like it is in rush hour. I walked down the stairs and stood waiting for the train as I played Candy Crush on my phone. There was a homeless dude sleeping on the bench, a group of mid-twenties black kids with skateboards and big headphones, and an older woman who may or may not have been homeless but was wearing a knit cap on top of a hood, which was just weird.<br /><br />I'm going to address this because it exists and it's relevant to the story: I am not racist. I'm not "scared" of black people. I don't pull my purse closer to me when I see a group of black kids. I take all my cues from the way people act, regardless of race, and base my actions on that. In fact, the woman with the double head-warmer had a sketchy look in her eyes and kept getting close to me so I decided to avoid what I feared might be a potential pickpocket and moved away from her to stand near the group of black guys because they were simply talking amongst themselves like normal people.<br /><br />I'm playing Candy Crush for about two minutes when one of the guys approaches me. I look up, and he says something I can't hear because a train is coming through. I ask him to repeat it. It was something along the lines of "You look pretty." I politely thanked him and went back to my game. But he kept talking. Telling me how nice I looked, how he thought I was just super cute, how he loved my hair.&nbsp;I thanked him again, because I do honestly think he was being sincere and I didn't feel threatened by him - just uncomfortable to be singled out.<br /><br />It, to me, was the same as someone whistling at me on the sidewalk, or catcalling me as I walk by. I shouldn't have to justify what I was wearing, but for the record it was jeans, a long-sleeved striped shirt with a high collar, and a gigantic shawl/scarf wrapped around me for warmth. It was possibly the least slutty thing I could've worn. While he wasn't being vulgar at all, he was only talking about my looks, over and over again. Then he went a little further and started full on talking about how we should hang out, how I should take his number, how he wanted to touch my hair. Other than the hair touching part, nothing he said was really over the line. I think he just honestly thought that was how you get a girl to go out with you.<br /><br />Now here's the caveat - had this guy been a white guy, I would have shut him down with snark in a hot second. If you're bothering me and making me uncomfortable, I have no problem walking away and being a bitch. This goes for people on the street, on the train or in a bar. However, I felt like I needed to be nicer because he was black. I didn't want him to think I was racist, or that I was rejecting him because he was black. I have witnessed friends who were either hit on in a vulgar way or catcalled by a black guy and when they ignored him (because his comments were inappropriate and warranted no response) they'd yell "Oh it's cause I'm black, huh?" as we walked away.<br /><br />I was rejecting him because he made me uncomfortable. Because I have no interest in meeting a potential date in a subway station.&nbsp; Because he treated me like I was just something to look at. Because my polite refusal to give him my number didn't deter him. Because I have severe social anxiety and don't like to talk to ANY STRANGERS. Because he either couldn't see or ignored the fact that I was getting progressively more uncomfortable.&nbsp;Because he would not leave me alone.<br /><br />When the train came, I got on a different car than he did, and he&nbsp;yelled "You want me to come sit with you?" I shook my head no and quickly found a seat next to an older woman.&nbsp;I felt so vulnerable because I let it go on so long. I was angry at myself that I let race factor into my decision not to stand up for myself in the likely bitchy way I wanted to. And because of that, the comments started to make me feel like less of a person. Not a 3-degree-holding attorney, but a delicate flower that exists only for the amusement of men.<br /><br />I almost had a panic attack on the train. I felt like I wanted to cry and throw up at the same time. It was tough to hold the tears til I got to my car 10 stops away. Was I weak? Was I racist? Why am I so uncomfortable with people? Why did he choose to talk to the one person in the train station that had crippling social anxiety? Why do I look approachable?<br /><br />I've been catcalled and I hate it, but this was like catcalling a captive. I couldn't escape. I was trapped.<br /><br />Why do men think this is okay? How can you not tell you're making me uncomfortable? Why do you keep going until I want to scream "GO AWAY"? Why do you then think it's okay to get angry with me? <br /><br />Is there somewhere other than Asia where this is not a thing? Because Asia's awfully far away. Maybe I need to get back in the courtroom in my suit and fuck some shit up.&nbsp; I don't know, but something needs to change.<br />Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8950127027740557942.post-73625462818251415412015-10-14T23:13:00.000-07:002015-10-14T23:13:43.981-07:00THE 7 TYPES OF FACEBOOK STALKINGWe all Facebook stalk. It's just a thing we do. But Facebook stalking isn't just for that guy or girl you're hoping to date - there's a whole slew of different reasons to stalk:<br /><br />1. The classic "I have a crush on you so I'm going to look at every photo of you from today back to when Facebook&nbsp;began even if it takes all damn night"<br /><br />2. The "you look like you got plastic surgery and I'm going to go back through your photos to find out when the drastic change occurred and how long you've successfully hidden it" - the best is when you find conclusive proof and show your friends how great you are at sleuthing.<br /><br />3. Everybody's favorite "who the hell is that girl/guy in your photo and are you dating them?" Why do you have no relationship status up? She's not in your profile pic, she can't be that important. Maybe she's just a coworker but I'll be damned if I don't find out more.<br /><br />4. "Are you pregnant or have you just gained weight?" The key for this one is looking for alcohol in photos - is she the only one without wine in that girl's night photo? Bottle of water at a music fest when everyone else has beers? Preggo, for sure.<br /><br />5. "You blatantly photoshop every picture you post of yourself so I'm going to find one you're tagged in by someone else and figure out what you REALLY look like." Inches off the waist? Hair longer? Eyes that are a cartoonish color of blue? I haven't seen you in years but I'm going to find out what you're hiding.<br /><br />6. The "very subtle name change (i.e. from Sally Jones to Sally Marie with no last name) and many recent pictures alone that seem to indicate you got divorced" - of course you have to go see if they still have their wedding album in their photos, that's the key.<br /><br />7. "We just started dating and I want to see if you're a complete psychopath/who my competition is/if you're a raging alcoholic/etc"&nbsp; Hmm, so you dated that girl in 2009, she's only a 6. How come every pic of you has beer in it? Why do you have a beer in your hand at a baby shower? Maybe that's a red flag, combined with the picture of you passed out with a penis drawn on your face and the one where you can see how nasty your apartment is in the background...Assbuckethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07107865299285389268noreply@blogger.com0